Cause For Paws
by Adurna Skulblaka
Summary: Sixteen year old John wakes up with no memory of how he came to be in this place called the Resort, or why he now has to endure shape shifting. Just as things begin to settle down, the odd student called Sherlock comes to him with a plan. John has the chance to answer all of the questions he has, but to do so he will have to abandon the new life he's grown used to.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I thought of this only yesterday, and here's the first chapter already. I'll admit, I'm ridiculously excited for this fic. Enjoy!**

* * *

John was bored, couldn't remember how he'd ended up in that hospital bed and, worst of all, he had no idea where he was. Oh, he recognised the place – he'd been in and out of consciousness for an unknown length of time – but he didn't know where it was. He was in some sort of infirmary, but no one else was there. According to the little he could remember, no one _had_ ever been in there when he was awake.

And that was another thing: John's memory. He couldn't remember a single thing other than his name, but he'd seen that on a form pinned to a board at the foot of his bed so really he was just being observant. But honestly, John couldn't recall anything about himself before this place, whatever it was.

Just as he was deciding to call out to see if anyone was actually there, a door at the far end of the infirmary opened. A woman with a friendly smile walked in, accompanied by a girl that appeared to be around seventeen, like John. The woman had short blond hair and walked very upright, while the girl seemed almost shy and nervous behind her. John felt himself cheering up at the sight of the visitors.

"Hello, John," the woman greeted, halting at the end of his bed. "I'm Elizabeth, but you can call me Liz. This," she added, gesturing at the girl, "is Molly." Liz paused, waiting for Molly to speak, but the girl stayed quiet, so she continued. Keeping the concerned smile on her face, Liz held a pen ready over her clipboard. "Now, how are you feeling, John? You've been out of it for quite a while."

John hesitated, gathering his thoughts. How _did_ he feel, physically? Kind of like someone had turned his limbs into jelly. "Alright, I suppose," he finally answered, moving himself up into more of a sitting position. He was frustratingly weak, and only ended up shifting a few inches; he put it down to his 'while' of sleeping.

Liz nodded and scribbled something on the clipboard. "Good, good. Tell me, have you been feeling the need to change at all?"

"Change?" The confusion was clear in John's tone. What on Earth did this woman mean? Of course, he'd rather wear some proper clothing instead of the irritating hospital gown-

"Oh!" Liz laughed lightly, slapping her forehead. "My apologies. You haven't had it explained to you yet, have you? Never mind about that for now, then." This time, Liz only made a short note on her paper; John was almost certain that she had drawn a cross.

"There are some clothes under your bed for you just your size; once you're dressed, Molly can introduced you to the Resort." Turning back towards the door, Liz began to leave. "Oh, and Molly?"

The girl jumped, her doe-like eyes widening. "Yes, Liz?"

"Make sure you show John the woods, too. He'll need to remember where they are later on."

Molly nodded, offering Liz a tentative smile. "Of course."

"Thank you, dear." She lifted her hand to wave farewell, and then she disappeared into the corridor beyond the doors of the infirmary.

John instantly turned to Molly, ready to ask the questions that were buzzing around in his head. However, he didn't get a chance, because Molly gestured to the space under his bed and stuttered, "I'll… um, leave you to get ready. I'll be outside." She darted through the doors without waiting for a reply, leaving John alone again. He sighed in irritation, hoping this wouldn't become a regular thing.

Slowly, hesitantly, he slid his legs out from underneath the thin covers and placed his feet on the floor. The tiles were cold under his skin after the warmth of the bed sheets. Shivering slightly, John tugged the pile of clothes out from underneath him – jeans, shirt, jumper and underwear, all of which were annoyingly plain – and switched the hospital gown with them. He felt much more comfortable when he wasn't dressed in the flimsy green clothing, and it helped him to relax a bit more, too. Once he was presentable, he went to find Molly.

She was outside in a bland corridor. The walls and floor were covered in the same white tiles as the infirmary; it felt like John hadn't actually left the room. A little further down the corridor to his left, he could see pictures occasionally hung between doors, making it a little more interesting. On the right, however, the walls remained blank, except for a single door at the end.

"Hi," John said to Molly, nodding at her and giving her a smile that he didn't really feel belonged on his face at that moment. He wanted nothing more than to demand answers, but it wouldn't be right to ask the nervous girl. There was an awkward pause during which neither of them looked at each other, John because he was trying to work out what was an appropriate way to act – he couldn't remember much of that either – and Molly because she was just so shy.

"Shall we get going, then?" Molly eventually asked, attempting a quick flicker of a smile. John eagerly accepted, and then they were off.

Molly led him down the left corridor, towards the more homely looking half. Secretly, John was glad; he didn't fancy the idea of going over to that isolated door, as it had a feeling that seemed... _secretive._ He wasn't sure, but it was almost like he could feel fur rising on the back of his neck, like an animal that felt the need to make itself look bigger to appear threatening.

But that was ridiculous. He didn't have _fur._

* * *

John had to admit, the Resort was a wonderful place. Molly had taken him through several doors and corridors until they'd reached a large room that actually looked like somewhere John would want to spend his free time. The floor was a wonderfully soft carpet that was like walking on clouds after the freezing tiles; there were luxurious sofas scattered throughout the room; and the walls weren't the dull, blank wallpaper he'd become used to, but a lovely cream colour that was easy on the eyes. Around the walls were several more doors with little golden plaques on them, just about the height of the door handles. It was a relief to be away from the clinical feel of the corridors by the infirmary.

"This is the common room," Molly told him, gesturing around the room. "People come here sometimes, but most prefer to go to the woods or their rooms in their free time…"

Then she showed him the door that would lead onto the dormitories – but he would be able to see those later, once he'd met one of the male students – and the way to the classrooms. It seemed that the others were in lessons at the moment, because John and Molly were the only two around. They ended up taking a seat on one of the comfortable sofas, and John took the opportunity to let loose the questions that had been bothering him.

"Where are we?"

"It's called the Resort..."

"How did I get here?"

"I don't know..."

"What are we doing here?"

"I don't know that either..."

For a moment, John was content. But then he remembered one of his first thoughts. "What did Liz mean by 'change'?"

Molly looked relieved at this one. "That's easy…" However, despite her words, Molly fidgeted and glanced around the room, as if the explanation was printed onto the wall for her to read out. "We, um… transform into animals. That's really the only way to put it. That's the only thing they'll tell us about why we're here…"

John just stared at her. That was ridiculous. People couldn't _turn into animals_… he couldn't remember anything about his past, but he knew that that wasn't normal. He opened his mouth several times to answer, but shut it every time. When it was clear that John _wasn't_ going to give her a reply, Molly quietly said, "It's true, honest..."

Before either of them could say anything else, there was the sharp buzz of a bell. Molly stood up, gesturing for John to do the same. "Classes have finished… I may as well show you the woods now. That's where you'll have to… you know…"

Surprising even himself, John found that he was eager to see if this was all true and if it was, what his animal form would be. He got his feet and, ignoring the fact that he wasn't wearing any shoes, he followed Molly through one of the doors.

* * *

Sherlock was so bored.

Well, it wasn't exactly anything new. He could never be very entertained at the Resort; he was too intelligent for any of the games they had on offer for them to be fun. Some of the other students played some form of tag in the woods, others spent their time reading books they were given… No, Sherlock found it all tedious. If he couldn't have a choice of which book he wanted, then he'd rather go without.

That was why he often found himself deep in the heart of the woods, where it was cool, dark and quiet. He'd found the fence at the edge long ago, and had accidentally singed his fur when he'd come across it, not realising an electric charge was sent through it twenty-four-seven. Ever since then, Sherlock had kept away from the barriers.

He'd been surprised by his animal form when he'd first transformed. Sherlock had imagined he'd become some sort of cat, of course, but a leopard hadn't been the one he'd quite had in mind. Still, he couldn't complain. His lean, strong muscles were perfect for climbing high into the trees to stay away from everyone else.

That was where he was when he heard the high pitched yelping of a canine.

He tilted his golden head to the side, grey eyes narrowing into slits. Either someone was hurt, or that same person was experiencing one of their first transformations. Over time, becoming an animal hurt less and less, until eventually it was just like slipping on a coat. There was no way the adults would place something harmful in their midst – unless they were experimenting again, but Sherlock doubted they were – so that could only mean one thing.

There was someone new.

Opening his jaws in a wide yawn, Sherlock lifted his haunches into the air and stretched, enjoying the cool breeze that ruffled his fur. Seeing as he had nothing better to do, he decided to investigate.

There was a soft thud as the leopard dropped to the leafy floor of the woods; Sherlock froze, his muscles tensed to bolt, but none of the other students that were currently in the forest noticed. Like him, they were too curious about the cry of the animal to notice one of the older ones slipping through the trees.

It wasn't long until Sherlock found the source of the noise. His nose twitched as the scents of other students assaulted it, his lips curling back in a silent growl of irritation. He rarely met with anyone else in the woods, so the smells were especially strong to him. Shaking his muzzle, he took a hesitant step forwards, until just his face was peeking through the shadows.

A German shepherd stood beside a second canine that was writhing in pain on the ground. If Sherlock wasn't mistaken, the dog was a boy of sixteen or so and called Greg. He was a fairly nice person, Sherlock supposed, judging by the times he'd spoken to him. Greg glanced over at him before returning his gaze to the unfortunate creature in front of him.

It was a wolf. Its brown fur was on end as it let out another whine of discomfort, but it gradually began to settle down again as the shuddering pain melted away. Even Sherlock felt a small bit of pity for him; he remembered his own first transformation, and it had been far worse.

Sherlock parted his jaws to take in the scents better. Once he got past the ones that hung around each of the animals hidden around him, he could detect confusion and fear coming from the wolf. He closed his mouth with a quiet click of his teeth and flicked his tail across the ground, disturbing a few leaves.

The fur on his shoulders twitched when there was a soft purr of laughter to the right. Sherlock didn't bother to look over. He knew without even looking that it would be one of the few people he tolerated: Irene.

While she too had golden, spotted fur, she wasn't a leopard. No, Irene was a cheetah: slender, quick and clever. She was one of the only students that could match Sherlock's intelligence, which he found wonderfully refreshing, but she also made no secret that she was attracted to him, even though he didn't return those feelings. That was the one thing that kept Sherlock from calling her a friend.

_I didn't expect to see you here,_ she commented, flicking an ear backwards. _You don't usually come when someone new changes._

_ Bored,_ he growled in reply. _Who is he?_

_ No idea. We all came running when we heard him._ There seemed to be an amused tone to Irene's thoughts as she watched the wolf stand up shakily._ I've never seen one of us become a wolf before. They're loyal, reliable, helpful… The opposite of you,_ she added teasingly.

Sherlock decided that that didn't deserve a response. He merely huffed and sat down, wrapping his tail around his paws. Irene continued speaking, but Sherlock wasn't listening; her words had given him a thought that was too tempting to pass up.

He was certain that none of them had been born with the ability to change forms. He didn't know how he knew, but Sherlock could just tell that something was off. If it was natural, why would they all be kept in that building? He'd tried asking one of the adults once, but he was brushed off as if he was no more than annoying fly. There were other observations he'd made as well, but it was a struggle to remember them all, and he didn't dare to write anything down in case he was found out. There was no telling what would be done if the adults realised Sherlock knew more than they wanted him to.

But still, Sherlock wanted someone to share his thoughts with. He didn't know what he would do, but if he could discuss them with someone, it would help him to clear his mind somewhat. He couldn't trust Irene with the information, even though she had probably worked out as much as he had.

No, Sherlock needed someone loyal, reliable and willing to help him.

Perhaps this wolf would be just the right person.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Phew. Thank goodness. I didn't think I was going to get this up in time. Being ill is such a pain.**

* * *

Trembling, John forced himself to his paws. He hadn't expected just how painful the transformation would be, or how much strength it would sap from his limbs. Greg and Molly had warned him, of course, but it definitely hadn't prepared him for what would happen.

A low whine whistled between his gritted teeth as he managed to stand with a little bit of difficulty, but then he felt a shoulder pressed against his own to hold him upright; glancing over, John saw Greg lending him some support. _You alright, mate?_

_ Fine,_ John replied. The longer he spent in his wolf form, the easier it seemed to be for him to stay standing. One by one, his five senses returned to him; he could feel the earth beneath his paws, hear the murmurings of other students around him, see through the gloom under the trees, taste and smell the different scents in the air. It was confusing, but wonderful at the same time. They provided him with a wealth of information, and it left him wondering how he'd ever coped with his duller human senses before.

_You good now?_ Greg asked, tilting his head to the side.

_Yeah, thanks._ When the German shepherd retreated, John shook out his fur, revelling in the feel of it. A quick glance down at his paws confirmed the colour of it: a dark, almost chocolate brown. John hadn't even taken a step yet, but he could _feel_ the power in his muscles, just waiting to send him bounding into the woods. _Greg… what do we actually _do _in here?_

_Whatever you want. Most people tend to run around, some people keep to themselves… Whatever takes your fancy._ Snorting, Greg began to pad away, his tail waving in the air. _You coming, or shall we just leave you to yourself for now?_

John hesitated, his ears flicked forward after his friend. _I think I'll just explore, thanks. _

_Alright. See you later, mate._ And, without another word, Greg vanished into the trees. There were a few rustling sounds, and then John was alone.

He stood still for a few seconds, taking in the feel of his new body. Drawing in a deep breath, John could still detect the scents of other students; one was stronger than others, but he wasn't entirely sure what that meant. Maybe the student had been there for the longest? It didn't seem problematic though, so he brushed it off.

John picked a path roughly in front of him and set off, keeping to a brisk trot. The cool soil on the ground was wonderfully soft and yielded to the shape of his paws, leaving prints behind as he made his way into the woods. The sweet, fresh smell of plants drifted about his muzzle, along with the slightly tangy one of animals hidden from him. There was the odd snap of a stick or the cry of an animal – whether it was a student or an actual creature, John couldn't tell – but other than that, there was silence.

All in all, it was beautifully peaceful.

It gave John time to adjust his thoughts to this new life he'd need to get used to. It helped that he couldn't remember anything before waking up in the infirmary, he supposed, but it would have been nice to know where he'd come from. John couldn't recall a single thing about how he came to be in the Resort. He thought it all seemed a bit suspicious, if he was honest; John could almost _feel_ the answers to his questions lurking at the back of his mind, but he just couldn't reach them. Maybe if he could remember something, he'd be able to-

A soft thud alerted John to the presence of someone behidn him and halted his thoughts.

Hackles rising, John turned slowly on the spot, lightly placing his paws on the ground so they barely made a sound. He lowered his head and growled quietly in warning before he noticed what he was doing. As soon as it hit him that he really was acting like an animal, the growl choked off into silence and John froze. His fur was on end and quivering, so he made a conscious effort to flatten it to appear less threatening.

There was a low purr of amusement from the shadows in front of him, a flash of a golden pelt as someone moved swiftly from one place to another.

The only warning John had were two quiet words: _Think fast._

He yelped in surprise as the creature bowled into him, sending him rolling across the leafy floor. The wolf was on his feet again in seconds, but once he was there he found himself unsure what to do.

A leopard sat in front of him, completely unfazed by what he'd just done, tail curled around his paws and humour sparkling in his eyes. _I was hoping for a better reaction than that, but I suppose it'll do._ He paused, flicking an ear while he considered John. _So, you're the wolf. New here, obviously. I'd even hazard a guess at you being out of the infirmary for just a few hours. And that was your first transformation, judging by the frankly painful sound you made earlier - painful for me, I mean. It was rather high pitched._

John tipped his head to the side and whined questioningly. _Yeah, what's your point?_

The leopard seemed a bit put-out for a moment, but he soon perked up again. _What's your name?_

_ John_, he replied instantly. _What's you- Hey!_ Letting out a sharp growl of irritation, John bounded forwards in an attempt to catch the student, who had just leaped up into a tree. There was quiet laughter echoing in his head.

_Stay on your toes, John,_ the leopard said, peering back over his shoulder at the frustrated canine on the ground. And, without even giving him a goodbye, the cat vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

For a moment, all John could do was stand there and let his fur bristle in anger. What a rude git! He hadn't even waited for John to ask for his name! John smacked a paw on the ground in a very human gesture of irritation before taking off in the other direction at a sprint.

All of his worries instantly fell away in the exhilaration of the run. The wind whistled through his fur, and John's paws ate away the ground and sent him flying through the woods.

He wouldn't worry about the leopard. Whoever it was had probably just been curious about him, which John could understand; he was new – as the leopard had rightly said – and the only wolf, so he was bound to gain the interest of some people.

John slowed down, scenting the air to find the trail of someone he knew. It wasn't long before he detected Greg's path. Pushing the matter of the leopard out of his mind, he trotted after the other boy.

* * *

Flicking his tail in satisfaction, Sherlock settled in his favourite tree and purred to himself contentedly. That wolf was just as he'd expected. Yes, Sherlock thought he could definitely trust him with his thoughts and ideas. It was just a matter of getting the boy to trust him in return.

A yowl from below caught his attention, but Sherlock brushed it off. He recognised that voice; it was Irene again, coming to bug him. He really wasn't in the mood for her attempts at flirtation, not that he ever was. It was a pain having her following him around like a lost puppy. If she could get over her annoying attraction for him, Sherlock was sure that they could get along well. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock stood, shook out his coat, and dug his claws into the bark of his branch. He tensed his muscles and then leaped.

It was only a small flight from this branch to one in a neighbouring tree, but it still made Sherlock grin like a child, even in his animal form. He sank his claws into the wood as soon as he landed, gripping it tightly as it wobbled a little. He could hear Irene calling from below, but he chose to ignore her. For all he knew, she just wanted to hang out, but Sherlock wanted to be alone.

_Running away? Come now, Sherlock; that's not like you at all, _she teased.

He didn't even deign to give her a reply. He simply prepared to jump again.

Once he managed to escape from Irene, it would be a simple matter to pick up John's scent trail and follow him. Sherlock wanted to observe him some more, and this was the best chance he had: while his senses were sharper, and he had the advantage of stealth.

* * *

While being a wolf was enjoyable, it was a relief to change back into a human again after a while.

Well, it was awkward, too. He had to go into a booth that had been placed just inside the woods from the entrance, will himself to turn back into his usual form – which was no easy task, since he was inexperienced _and _the process was a painful one – and then get dressed in the cramped space. Really, the design wasn't all that great; there was barely enough room for him as a wolf. Once he was dressed, John hurried back into the warmth of the building.

There were a few people waiting around, but John only recognised Molly. She was stood beside a boy who had greying hair already; when Molly waved him over, she told John his name was Greg. John felt more relaxed once he realised that this boy was the kind German shepherd, and much happier now that he knew a couple of faces.

At dinner, others came up to the table John shared with Molly and Greg to say hello, and it ended up being a struggle to remember all of their names; it seemed that everyone in the Resort wanted to greet him. But there was one thing John couldn't help listening out for, and yet he didn't find it: the voice that belonged to the leopard. He hadn't expected to, if he was honest with himself; whoever it was hadn't seemed to go by normal social rules, so he doubted that he'd come along to introduce himself.

John was pretty sure he'd met everyone by now, and he was beginning to doubt his memory of the leopard. Was he remembering his voice differently? John admitted that that was probably the case; he could have remembered it wrong, since he was an animal at the time.

It didn't matter, because it just so happened that he was about to meet the culprit.

Greg and John left Molly in the corridor that led to the dorms; they took the door on the left, while she went to the right. The dormitory itself was one large room with several beds around the edge. All in all, there were about a dozen. John expected to find some sign of who slept where, but all he had to go on was the state the beds were left in; some were neatly made, others had their sheets in a tangled mess at the end.

John took one that Greg told him wasn't being used and, finding a folded pair of pyjamas already on his pillow, John quickly changed and perched on his new bed before studying the room. Other students were wandering in through the door, chatting amongst themselves and laughing.

This wasn't so bad, John supposed. He would've been happier if he knew about his past, but at the end of the day, he was safe, comfortable and content. He could easily get used to this life.

Just as everyone was wriggling under their duvets – which were incredibly soft, much better than the hospital bed John had woken up in – the door opened again, allowing the last person to slip inside. Most people ignored him, but John glanced up and found the person's gaze already fixed on him.

The boy was lean, made up of sharp angles and had a general indifferent feel about him. Messy dark brown hair tumbled over the top of his forehead, but it wasn't out of control; there was a sense of order to the curls in their chaos. Eyes that reminded John of ice pinned him in place and left him unable to look away from this odd student.

The boy blinked and averted his gaze, severing the connection. John saw him smirking as he went over to his own bed, a few bunks to the left of John's.

Under the pretence of adjusting the pile he'd put his clothes into by his bed, John leaned towards Greg; his friend tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Who is he?" John whispered, glancing in the boy's direction.

Greg's mouth formed a little 'o', and he gave John a bit of a grimace. "That's Sherlock. Met him, have you?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "What's his animal?"

"A leopard."

"Then yeah, I have."

"He's not so bad, once you get to know him. He's just a bit…" Greg trailed off, looking uncertain. In the end, he just shrugged.

Nodding to himself, John sat up. When he looked over at Sherlock again, he swore he saw the boy looking away. Had he heard their conversation? John couldn't be certain.

Just as he was beginning to doze off, the sharp buzz of the bell brought him back to his senses. The other boys rolled their eyes and muttered, but turned their attention to a speaker that had been subtly hidden in the corner of the ceiling. John followed their gazes, looking curious.

_"Good evening, students."_ A man's voice came from it, one that John didn't recognise. He'd seen a few members of staff around when he'd been given a tour of the Resort, but he hadn't heard anyone who spoke like that. It was smooth, almost slippery. It reminded John of a snake; he shivered, but instead of burrowing into his duvet, he sat up a little straighter. If he was in wolf form, he was certain that his fur would have been bristling.

_ "I do hope you have all had an enjoyable day, but remember: should one of you transform during the night, alert the nearest student so they may assist you in getting to the woods as soon as possible. Staff will be on hand if they are needed. Sleep well."_

Thinking that the announcement was done, the boys began to curl up under their duvets again, exchanging a few last minute comments about their day, when the voice interrupted them. Someone growled in irritation; John felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle when he realised that whoever it was had sounded far too much like an animal for his taste.

_"Oh, and one other thing. Make our newest student feel welcome. We wish you all the best and hope you settle in well, John."_ There was a pause, as if it could make up for the significant look John was sure he would have had directed at him, had he been in the presence of the man. John shook his head, telling himself he was just imagining it. _"Lights out, everyone." _

And with another single beep, the lamps dimmed, leaving just a warm glow from the light overhead. Within minutes, the majority of the boys were sleeping, quietly snoring on their pillows. John took his time in letting his eyes close; he looked around the dorm, allowing the last of it all to sink in. Tomorrow he would be taking part in lessons with everyone else, he would make trips into the woods every day to stretch his wolf's limbs, and he would continue as if he knew that he'd been there his whole life. He wished he knew what he was missing, though.

He frowned, flicking his gaze back over to Sherlock. The boy was sat _on_ his pillow, hugging his knees to his chest. When he noticed John looking at him, amusement glittered in his icy eyes, reminding John of the moment in the woods. Quietly, barely raising his voice above a murmur, he said, "Goodnight, John."

There was no doubt about it: Sherlock was the leopard. John would recognise that rumble of a voice anywhere. Sherlock didn't offer him any explanation for his actions earlier in the day. He simply nodded once and turned away, fixing his eyes on the ceiling.

Sighing, John shifted into a more comfortable position and, far more quickly than he expected, fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

As usual, Sherlock was the first to reach the classroom. He hadn't slept much – he rarely bothered with rest, it wasn't important and he just could never manage to drift off; his mind was too busy. After an hour so of simply sitting there while everyone else slept, Sherlock had slipped out and gone to the woods. And, despite spending the rest of the night padding through the deathly silent trees, he still made it back inside before anyone else had even woken up.

That was how he found himself sitting in the room by himself, tapping his fingers on the desk out of boredom. The other students joined him in twos and threes, chatting and laughing as they made their way to their seats.

All in all, there were twenty-four teens at the Resort, by Sherlock's count. Twelve boys and twelve girls, all around sixteen to eighteen years old. There _had_ to be a reason why they were there, he was sure that there was one, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. Wasn't it a bit odd for all of them to be around the same age?

Sherlock sat up in his seat a little straighter when he saw John come in with Greg; he wouldn't admit it, but he found the wolf far more interesting than he should, and he enjoyed the short conversations they'd had. Was this what forming a friendship felt like? Sherlock didn't know. The closest he had was mutual respect between himself and Greg, and the strange connection with Irene.

He flicked his gaze from Greg to John, and was surprised to see the boy already watching him, a curious look in his eyes. When Sherlock caught him staring, however, his cheeks turned the tiniest bit pink and he turned away. He sat beside Greg towards the front of the classroom, unfortunately, so Sherlock couldn't speak to him. Grudgingly, Sherlock looked towards the board as the teacher entered. It was one of the kinder adults at the Resort, Liz. She spoke to them as if they were equals when she gave her lessons, which made a refreshing change.

He didn't know why the Resort bothered trying to teach them maths or science or English. They weren't going to use any of it when they had their transformations to deal with. Besides, what were they actually going to use those 'skills' for? That was why Sherlock never paid attention in the lessons; instead, he devoted his time to working out what the Resort was for.

Or, at least, he usually did.

His mind was occupied by John.

It was odd. Sherlock didn't quite know how to label the need he felt to befriend John and, what was even more confusing for the leopard, he realised that that wouldn't be quite enough.

Sherlock frowned; the feline in the back of his mind fluffed up his fur uncomfortably. The sensible part of him didn't like what he was thinking about John, but the other half told it to shut up and stop being smart. Of course, neither side gave in.

The lessons passed painfully slowly. Around halfway through, Sherlock was ready to use the excuse of needing to go to the woods. He would have as well if he hadn't planned to speak to John. When the annoying buzzer went off and the students leaped to their feet, Sherlock was already at the door, waiting for the others to pass. As the wolf went by him, Sherlock's hand darted out to tap him on the shoulder.

John looked over, confusion passing over his face as he noticed who it was. Sherlock merely jerked his head to the side, indicating the space next to him. John hesitated, and when Sherlock gestured again John quickly said something to Greg, then carefully weaved his way out of the crowd.

"Can I help you?" he asked, crossing his arms.

Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and raised his eyebrows. "Can't I speak to people now? Charming."

"No, I didn't mean…" John grimaced and shook his head. "Sorry. What do you want?"

Sherlock found himself feeling just the tiniest bit nervous. Hiding his scowl and his sudden anxiety, he spoke in an offhand voice. "I was wondering if you wanted to join me for a run in the woods later. My behaviour wasn't very acceptable when we met. I would like to correct that."

He watched with amusement as genuine surprise appeared in John's features. His heart sank, though, when he saw John's expression become apologetic. "I already promised Greg and the others that I'd go with them. You're welcome to join us, if you want."

Sherlock huffed and turned away. "Never mind. They won't appreciate my presence. Enjoy your day."

As Sherlock made to walk away, John grabbed his elbow, holding him in place. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him, but the wolf didn't let go. "Maybe another time?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock simply nodded. It wasn't just that he wanted to spend time with John – he _needed_ him. He needed to explain his suspicions about the Resort, and John was the one for that.

But even Sherlock knew that trust had to be the foundation for this, so he nodded, offering John a small smile. Looking satisfied, John let go of his arm and hurried after his friends.

* * *

John couldn't help feeling guilty about Sherlock that afternoon, but he didn't have time to linger on it. He could hear playful yips and yowls from other students as they disappeared into the bushes, running from Greg, who was 'it' in their game of tag. Just as the German shepherd turned towards him, a lopsided grin on his muzzle, John scrambled away into the nearest cover available. He thought he heard the thud of paws behind him, but he wasn't sure with the wind whistling in his ears.

After a while, John dared to slow down to a trot; he tilted his head to the side, and sniffed the air, pleased to find that the only traces of Greg's scent were old and fading.

There was a rustle in the tree above him, but a quick glance up told him that it was only one of the other students who took the form of a bird, no doubt hiding from Greg. It must have mistaken him for the dog, because a few seconds later it burst out of the leaves and fluttered away quickly. John let out an odd bark of laughter, his tail waving side to side slightly in amusement.

It wasn't long until he heard a low hum from nearby. Tilting his head to the side, John flicked his ears forwards in an effort to understand it, forgetting about the game completely; if Greg were to find him now, John would be an easy target. Hesitantly, he began to pad forwards. As he nosed his way through a bush, John spotted the source of the noise.

A tall wire fence stood proudly in front of him; when John tipped his head back as far as he could, he noticed that the trees' canopy had kept him from seeing the sky, and the net that stretched across it. Returning his gaze to the fence, John frowned at it as best he could in his wolf body. The trees continued on the other side for as far as he could see. The quiet buzz he'd noticed earlier was one long note; huffing, he stretched forward to touch the metal with his nose.

He yelped when a bolt of pain flashed through him, scrambling backwards and pawing at his muzzle. _Argh! _John howled in his head, shaking his nose from side to side in a vain effort to stop it from stinging. He whined softly, backing away from the fence as quickly as he could. He accidentally hit his flank on a tree, and when he couldn't find his way around it, John turned tail and fled.

He skidded to a halt when he heard crashing in the undergrowth in front of him; he darted to the side and laid down, hoping his dark fur would hide him. Barely seconds later, a cheetah darted past; she wasn't much more than a blur of gold as she went by, her laughter ringing in John's head. Greg wasn't far behind, but when a rabbit he hadn't noticed crossed his path – it was Molly, John remembered through the pain thrumming through his nerves – Greg changed his mind and chased her instead.

John barely had time to try licking his nose in an effort to stop it from smarting when he heard footsteps to his left. He turned…

… and became confused.

There was a cheetah stood there, the female one that Greg had been following, but there was a distinct _Sherlock_ air about her. Maybe it was the way she held herself, or the amused sparkle in her grey eyes, but either way, it was like being faced with a female Sherlock. She padded forwards, her head tipped to the side.

_John, isn't it?_

He blinked at her, unsure quite how to react. _Yeah… _

_ I'm Irene. I haven't had a chance to meet you yet._ Something else that was similar was the way in which she looked him over; John remembered that analytical stare that he'd received from Sherlock a couple of times now, but it felt odd coming from Irene instead.

John stayed silent, subtly nudging his paw with his nose to test how bad it was. It flickered with pain when it touched his fur, so he decided to leave it; he certainly didn't need to irritate it.

She settled beside him, stretching out on her belly and flicking her tail. _What did you do to your nose?_ At John's quiet growl of surprise, she laughed again and added, _Come now, John, it's difficult to miss. Your nose is burned; I can see it from here._

_ Oh._ John huffed, chuckling. _Fair enough._

_ So, what did you do?_

He shifted uncomfortably, averting his gaze. _Touched the fence around the edge of the woods. _

She purred, baring her teeth slightly as she grinned. _Oh, that is just _adorable,_ John. Don't worry; everyone does it at least once. Even Sherlock did; he told me about it afterwards._

He couldn't help growling in amusement; Irene chuckled, her odd smile spreading wider across her muzzle. After their laughter died away, John couldn't help voicing his thoughts. _He doesn't have many friends, does he?_

Irene's smile faded. She fixed her eyes on John's, the fur along her back ruffling slightly. _No, he doesn't. I'm the closest he has to one, and he still doesn't count me. He… tolerates Greg. _She hesitated, and then added, _You're the first person he's shown any real interest in._

John's ears flicked back and he turned his muzzle down. He looked up at Irene out of the corners of his eyes, wanting to hide his sudden burst of nerves as much as possible. There was something about Sherlock that put John on edge when he was around him; he was just so... strange. _Really? Why?_

_ Because you're trustworthy. Anyone who turns into a canine is, obviously. _Irene sniffed and looked away, scanning the woods. _Leopards are solitary creatures, but even they need a companion sometimes, John. Wolves are incredibly loyal; they would sacrifice themselves for their pack. Do you seem where I'm going with this?_

_ In animal terms… he wants us to be in the same pack…?_ John sounded sceptical. It all seemed very odd when put into words.

_He wants you to be his friend,_ Irene corrected, flicking his flank with the tip of her tail. _Sherlock rarely trusts people fully – I know for a fact that he isn't telling everyone everything that goes on in that funny head of his. And then you came along, embodying everything he wants in a good friend: loyalty, trust, kindness… and, if you don't mind me saying so, he doesn't find you a threat to his intelligence either._

John rolled his eyes and huffed with laughter. Of course that would be on Sherlock's 'Qualities of a Good Friend' checklist.

_Laugh all you want, John, but it's true._ _He sees you as the perfect person to be his friend. Would you do me a favour?_

_ What?_

_ Be that friend._ There was a hint of tenderness in Irene's gaze as she turned back to the wolf. _I've cared for him for a long time – both in attraction and genuine worry for him. If you're the one he wants to be close to, I'd be lying if I said I wanted to stop him. I want him to be happy. I've been getting used to the fact that he'll never return my affections for a long time now. _

_I doubt he realises I've noticed this, but he needs someone who will listen to him. It's difficult to miss, really. And judging by the way he's been watching you all day… well._ Irene's voice took on a teasing tone; she ducked to avoid John's paw, laughing.

_What are you talking about?_ John asked, half-embarrassed and half-confused. He honestly had no idea what Irene meant by that; he hadn't seen the way Sherlock had watched him in class throughout the day. Admittedly, John had caught his gaze once that morning – but that had been _once_, and both of them had simply been curious.

_That really is quite adorable,_ Irene repeated, chuckling and rising to her paws with a leisurely stretch. _You didn't even notice? Bless you, John. I'll definitely stick around to see how this pans out. _

John stood as well, shaking out his pelt. _You didn't say what you meant, though. What was that… look?_

Irene simply winked. She glanced over his shoulder, delight springing back into her expression. _You might want to start running; an owl is about to tag you._ And in the same manner as Sherlock would leave, Irene darted away, vanishing into the shadows. Deciding to take her advice, John ducked, and after the bird missed him with a frustrated screech, he took off into the woods again.

As he rejoined the game, however, John couldn't help lingering over what Irene had said. Judging by the way she had said it, she was implying something more than friendship. John felt his cheeks burn under his fur – a very human reaction, he noted; he began heading back towards the entrance to the woods, just in case he ended up accidentally transforming with all of the human thoughts and feelings occupying him.

As he paused, his paw hesitating over the ground, he felt something touch the end of his tail. Turning, he saw a rabbit hopping away, nervous laughter coming from her.

_Molly!_ John chuckled, grinning wolfishly. The rabbit merely twitched her tail and disappeared into a bush.

Abandoning these thoughts for now, John threw himself back into the game with gusto. Human emotions would be left for when he was in the correct form. When he first had the opportunity to speak to Sherlock next, he would offer him his friendship, and that was that.

John had a game of tag to win.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: -Smiles to herself- The plan is in motion... That is all.**

* * *

It was a week until John had to leave in the middle of the night.

He woke from a plain, boring dream – a class, one of the duller teachers droning on and on about maths with him being the only one in the room. What managed to rouse him was the sudden, wrenching pain in his stomach. John rolled onto his side, his stomach lurching, and tried to fight back the urge he felt to be sick. It eventually passed, but what didn't go was the pure _need_ to change. He couldn't force it away, no matter how hard he tried.

Gasping for breath, John yanked his duvet back and fell onto his hands and knees beside his bed. He twisted against the steady burn that trailed down his spine, but there was no possible way to escape it; once a transformation was in progress, it couldn't be stopped.

Miraculously, everyone slept through John's soft hisses of pain that became whines and whimpers – or so he thought.

Once it was over, he pushed himself to his paws and shook his muzzle from side to side. The scents of the other boys assaulted his nostrils almost immediately, but it confused him; they were the same, but different, lacking their animal edges. It was wrong, wrong, _wrong_. The human part of his brain wasn't back online yet; he hadn't had time to prepare himself or clear his thoughts of sleep, so it was taking longer than usual, and it allowed the wolf half that always lingered at the back to take over in full force.

The fur along his spine began to stiffen and fluff up as he backed out of the gap between his bed and the corner of the room. He tucked his tail between his legs and flattened his ears against his skull. This was all _wrong, _so wrong. Too many humans, not enough animals, no trees-

John almost yelped when one hand closed over his muzzle and a second twisted into the fur on the back of his neck. The grip was tight and refused to break. The owner hushed him gently, but John didn't listen. He began to struggle, twisting and thrashing, but then his confused wolf mind registered the smell that came with the person.

_Safe. _

_Good. _

_Home._

Once it was obvious he wasn't going to fight out of his hold, John was carefully tugged towards the door. The hand on his muzzle disappeared as the boy opened the door, and it didn't return once it was open. Only his fingers stayed tightly tangled in his fur as he guided John down the corridors, through the common room and eventually out into the woods.

The hand removed itself from his scruff and made a _wait here_ motion before the owner vanished into one of the changing rooms. John breathed in the calming scents of the woods, and felt himself gradually relaxing.

The greenery in front of him smelled fresh and clean; a droplet of water landed on his nose, and a quick glance upwards confirmed that it was raining heavily. John retreated under the canopy of trees to shelter while he waited for whoever it was to come back. Even though his mind was clearing, John couldn't quite place the scent that had reassured him so easily. He huffed and sat on a patch of dry ground, turning his muzzle towards the changing rooms.

He didn't have to wait long.

The lean, golden form of the leopard slipped through the door, flicking his paws in distaste as he padded across the wet ground. Grey eyes fixed on John's as he paused beside him, concern evident in his expression, despite his feline body.

_Are you alright, John?_

Sherlock's voice was a purr in his mind, and while worry was the prominent emotion, there was an undertone of satisfaction for some reason.

_I'm fine, thanks._ John nodded once in confirmation. Now he was outside and the transformation was behind him, he was much more comfortable – aside from the heaviness of the moisture that clung to his fur. He shook his coat, sending droplets flying; Sherlock growled and leaped backwards, tail twitching.

_Was there really any need for that? Your fur's only going to get wet again anyway._

John huffed and decided not to deign that with a response.

There was an awkward sort of pause, where both of them struggled to think of something to discuss, and they ended up studying the now squishy ground under their feet. John suddenly looked up, however, when he felt a cold nose touch his own. Sherlock drew back, a frown creasing his brows.

_Your nose looks sore. What did you do?_

_ Oh._ John couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice as he explained. _I found the electric fence. _

Sherlock snorted. _I can see that._ He began to pad away, and John scrambled after him, slipping and sliding as he caught up. _I don't want to stand around in the mud; I'd rather find somewhere my paws won't get wet._

John wasn't particularly bothered by the weather, but he supposed it was typical feline behaviour to prefer it when it was hot and sunny. Sherlock certainly didn't appear to like the rain; the tip of his tail flicked with irritation whenever a drop landed on his head or back. They eventually found a rocky area under the trees, and they ducked into a small cave. The two of them just managed to squeeze in side by side, but their noses were still exposed to the elements.

When the wolf turned to the left to look at Sherlock, he found the leopard's gaze already on him. Before he could say anything, Sherlock spoke up._ Why do you think there's a fence around the woods, John?_

John shrugged – or did the best version of it he could manage while in this form. _I don't know. To keep predators out? It's probably for our own safety._

Sherlock tilted his head to the side._ And the electricity?_

_ Same reason._ John peered outside, through the rain; from here, he could just catch a glimpse of the silver of the fence through the heavy mist. The part of the woods they were in was to the right and towards the back, in one of the far corners of the enclosure. He couldn't see much more than that, though.

From the corners of his eyes, he saw Sherlock's claws curl into the soft earth. _Did you ever consider that it might be to keep us trapped in here? Not just for our 'safety', but for other reasons? _

_ What other reasons?_ John asked, confused. _I don't-_

_ I just have the feeling that this isn't natural,_ Sherlock interrupted, a low growl in his tone now.

_What do you mean?_

_ Can't you feel it?_ When John made the mistake of returning his gaze to the leopard, he was pinned in place by his icy stare. _Oh, they _are_ good. I didn't realise they were this thorough._

_ Sherlock, what on earth are you on about?_ The fur along John's spine began to stiffen again as he became a little bit irritated._ Who are 'they'?_

_ The staff. Don't you see? No, why would you? I'm the only one who would notice._ Sherlock snarled quietly; John felt the leopard's tail brush against his own as it swept from side to side.

_You could always try explaining,_ he offered.

John's view was suddenly obscured by golden fur and bright eyes as Sherlock shoved his face close to John's. The leopard searched John's face, an odd mixture of emotions in his expression: wariness, hope, trust and just a little bit of affection.

John shivered.

_You must swear not to breathe a word of my deductions to anyone,_ Sherlock said, quietly but firmly. _And we can only speak about them while in this form. I'm confident that the staff cannot understand us while we're animals. Do you promise? _The wolf knew he was getting himself into something big by agreeing, but how could he refuse? Irene's words from a few days ago were circling in his head, and Sherlock's gaze was compelling. John didn't think he could have turned away from this now even if he'd wanted to. There was just something… _desperate_ in the way Sherlock was watching him with those wide grey eyes.

After a long moment, John nodded. _I promise._

Sherlock's shoulders sagged slightly in relief, and he moved out of John's space. He tucked his paws underneath his chest and turned to stare out at the rain. He didn't explain his thoughts just yet. Sherlock eventually spoke, but kept his gaze fixed on a tree opposite their shelter.

_I'll start from the beginning. I don't know about you, but I get the distinct feeling that this isn't natural. Do you ever see any of the staff needing to transform, or any more mature animals in the woods? No. It's just us teenagers. Either they have a separate enclosure, or they don't change at all._ When John began to say something, Sherlock swiftly cut him off. _Neither do they ever show any signs of being like an animal. You know as well as I do that sometimes people slip into habits that they pick up in their animal form – the way I walk for example, or the way you tip your head to the side when you ask a question – but none of the staff do that._

Sherlock paused, gathering his thoughts and giving John a moment to think what he'd said through. He waited for John to respond, unwilling to share anything else before the wolf reacted. It took John a moment, but he eventually looked up from his paws.

_That's actually a valid point. What else is there?_

Triumph sparkled in Sherlock's eyes. _I seriously doubt that there are only twenty-four of us adolescents out there, and as evidenced by the view behind the electric fence, there is a world we are being kept from, most likely so we don't leave._

_Inference: they need us here for some reason. Perhaps we provide something for them? And if so, _Sherlock continued, an excited edge now in his tone, _then what is it that we offer them? I really don't think we're just here to be safe, as they tell us over and over again. So, what can we get from that?_ He was silent then, and when he nodded at John, the wolf realised Sherlock wanted him to continue.

_They need us here…_

Sherlock blinked at him. _Go on._

_ They need us here because they can't let us go, if we go by what you worked out. Or they don't want to let us go._

_ But why don't they want to let us go, John? _

John sighed, turned his muzzle away and snorted. _I don't know. Hell, Sherlock, I can't remember anything before this week; how am I supposed to work out any plans that might or might not exist?_

_ Because we need to, _the leopard replied simply. He hesitated, then lowered his nose to nudge John's paw with it. _You will help me to work it out, won't you? I need someone to discuss things with._ John had the impression that Sherlock wanted to add something else, but the leopard changed his mind at the last moment.

Another golden-furred feline prowled through John's thoughts: Irene. It was almost as if he could feel her watching him, reminding him of what he'd promised. There had never been any question about it anyway; John had decided that he was going to be Sherlock's friend, and Irene had just made that decision more solid.

John stretched over to touch his muzzle to Sherlock's ear. _Of course._

* * *

Liz strode through the corridors of the Resort, heading towards the surveillance room. This part of the sprawling building was hidden behind the locked door that John had seen after leaving the infirmary. No student had succeeded in getting past that door once they'd been placed in the Resort – that was, unless the experiment showed signs of failing and had to be removed from the others. That had happened long before this particular group of teenagers, and the results had been… not disastrous, but not what the staff wanted.

She lightly knocked on the door before entering. The room was dimly lit, with screens covering the whole of the opposite wall. There was a desk beneath it with several chairs pushed under it. Only one person was on duty at the moment, as it was the middle of the night; most, if not all, of the students would be asleep, so there was no need to watch every monitor.

"Evening, Ian," Liz greeted, taking a seat on one of the spare chairs.

"Evening," he replied. He tilted his head towards her in acknowledgement, but didn't take his eyes off of the screens. "What can I do for ya?"

"I just came to check up." She shrugged, following his gaze. He was focused on one of the monitors that showed the woods. It was raining, but by now it had turned to a misty drizzle that obscured most of the image, and yet it was still possible to see a small cave-like structure the rocks had formed. On the left was a dark shape hidden in the shadows cast by the rocks, but on the right was a blur of yellow. Only two students had animal forms that had that particular colour for their fur, and a quick glance at another screen confirmed that the female was asleep.

Ian nodded at the one he was watching, a slight frown on his face. "The wolf changed, so the leopard took him out to the woods. It looked like they were discussin' somethin', but I dunno what. Can't speak animal."

A curious glimmer lit up Liz's eyes. "Did they make any gestures, or actions, perhaps?"

Scratching his chin, Ian shrugged. "Difficult to tell, with this weather. If it was dry, I'd be able to give you a good few details. After they went over there, they were mostly still, but the leopard did get a bit agitated at one point. I'll get the tape when my shift's over, if you want."

"That would be lovely, thank you." She tapped her nails on the desk, a frown tugging on her eyebrows.

"The leopard's Sherlock Holmes, right?" Ian asked, glancing over at her.

"Yes."

"I remember why he's here." The man shook his head, a pitying look in his eyes. "Crazy. I wouldn't have picked that for anything."

"He's a curious boy," Liz said, as if that excused Sherlock's choice. "His brother has access to a lot of secrets, this project included. No doubt once he found out, he wanted to try it out for himself. Can you really blame him?"

"I guess not." Ian looked uneasy as he pushed his chair back and put his feet on the desk, so he wouldn't have to crane his neck as much; getting a crick in his neck wouldn't be helpful or comfortable. "Either way, he's mad for wanting to become that. How's he ever gonna make his way in life if he gets out?"

"He won't," Liz sighed. "He can't anymore. His brother should have thought things through before letting him do this." She stood, smoothed out the creases that had appeared in her lab coat, and headed towards the door again. "Let me know if either of them do anything odd, Ian."

"The boss will want to know as well, right?"

"Yes. We can't keep something like that from him." She smiled over her shoulder. "Goodnight."

Ian waved a hand in her direction, already concentrating on the two creatures he was watching. "Night, Liz."

As the door clicked closed, Ian frowned to himself. He would never understand why Sherlock had picked this life for himself, and he wasn't sure he wanted to try to. The poor kid would've been better off with his brother, as a normal human, like Ian and the rest of the staff. Ian had the feeling that Sherlock was only going to end up causing trouble for himself, but he doubted that there was anything anyone could do to stop it.

Ian closed his eyes and shook his head sharply, snorting. "I need to stop offerin' to take these night shifts," he muttered, returning his attention to the monitor in time to see the leopard and the wolf slipping away through the trees.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: I did have this chapter done a few days ago, but I've been busy and, well... I wasn't too pleased with it, I'll admit. I had to wait until I had more time to edit it, though. But here it is!**

* * *

John fell onto his furry back with a huff and raised his eyebrows at the feline that had pounced on him. Sherlock had pinned John to the forest floor by tackling him, and then pressing his paws onto the wolf's chest. He'd caught John completely by surprise, and he took great pride in that; Sherlock was the only one that could manage to be stealthy enough to avoid John's heightened senses, which amused the leopard greatly.

It had been around three weeks since John and Sherlock had become friends, and since then they had become inseparable. Where one went, the other followed, even in human form. The other students noticed this but brushed it off; they were just glad that someone had taken the role of 'Sherlock's Friend' upon themselves, so they didn't have to. But John wasn't doing it just to sacrifice himself for the others, oh no. He genuinely liked Sherlock, and wanted to spend his time with him. They were as close as two friends could be, despite having only known each other for a month, and yet John still couldn't get rid of that lingering feeling of wanting more than just friendship.

_John!_ Sherlock yowled, wriggling excitedly.

_What?_

_ I've found something! Come and look! Quickly!_

_Well, I would if you would let me up. _

Sherlock didn't bother apologising; he just leaped off of his friend and began padding back and forth, his jaws parted in an odd, feline grin. His tail whipped across the ground in impatience as John rolled back to his feet and shook some grass from his brown fur. He didn't hesitate; as soon as he saw that John was standing, he took off through the trees, calling, _This way!_ over his shoulder.

John broke into a sprint, his speedy gallop easily catching up to Sherlock's loping run. Either he was fast or Sherlock wasn't really trying, but John preferred to think it was the former. They passed a few other students, who called out greetings to John as they went by, but they didn't try to intrude. While Sherlock had softened a bit since becoming friends with John, there was still that dismissive bite to his tone when he spoke to most people, and they tended to avoid that as much as they could. John tried to get him to stop it, obviously, but Sherlock never listened to it.

It was then that John realised where Sherlock was leading him. He recognised the rocky area of the forest; without the hazy mist of rain over it, it looked much friendlier and more comfortable, and certainly a nice place to sit in the sun. He hadn't been there since that night many, many evenings ago. But Sherlock went by the rocks without a single glance in that direction. Instead, he turned right and dived back into the trees again, and John had to scramble to catch up again, slipping on a few stray pebbles as he went.

He almost ran into Sherlock.

The leopard had halted just inside the line of trees without warning, and it was only because of his friend's brightly coloured fur that John noticed him before they went tumbling onto the ground again. He stumbled but managed to stop himself from tripping over, thanks to his four paws. Eager grey eyes met his, a bright sparkle in them that could only be described as _'a kid who heard Christmas came early'._

_ I found something in the tree,_ he told John, kneading the ground with his paws. _It proves my theory._

_ Which one?_

Sherlock ignored his question. He bunched the muscles in his hind legs and leaped; he caught himself on the tree bark, and easily crawled up the trunk until he was balancing on a particularly thick branch. John trotted around the tree, tipping his muzzle up so he could keep Sherlock in his sight. His friend crouched on the branch, digging his claws into the wood, and flicked his tail towards a hollow in the tree. _A camera, John. They're observing us._

John wanted to try and argue with that, but it wasn't possible. He couldn't think of a way around it. So, Sherlock was right; they _were_ being watched. But that still didn't explain why, did it? _What's your point?_ he called up, tipping his head to the side.

He could almost _feel_ Sherlock's frown of disapproval. _It means that I was right, obviously._

John sat down, his ears flicking back as he growled quietly. _Right about what? I told you that you keep doing this, leaving me in the dark while you go off on one about something you thought o-_

He was silenced by a thud. Sherlock had leaped down from the tree, landing shortly in front of John, and now he trotted over to him, a scowl on his furry face. _This isn't natural. I told you it wasn't! Why else would they be watching us? I can believe that they'd have a fence surrounding us to protect us, but cameras? No. What if this is all an experiment?_

The wolf flattened his ears against his skull, a low whine slipping from between his teeth. _Sherlock…_

_ It makes sense, John! It fits! _Sherlock turned and tilted his chin up, staring at the camera's hiding place. _Now the question is: what experiment is it? What are they testing? Oh, this is fantastic…_

_ Sherlock, stop it. It's not an experiment._

The leopard snorted. _Do you have a better explanation? _When John didn't reply, Sherlock nodded and grinned in triumph. _I knew it. I knew there was something off, I could _feel _it. I need to find out what it is that they're doing… But how?_

While Sherlock continued to ramble, John stayed silent, feeling uneasy. If it was just an experiment, that would mean that the last month wouldn't make sense, just after he'd relaxed into this life. A shiver ran down John's spine at the thought.

Was the possible experiment linked to his memory loss? Was there someone in the Resort, the very building nearby, that knew about his past? And if so, what were they hiding from him?

He noticed that something was wrong when Sherlock fell silent. The leopard had frozen, his eyes wide with realisation. But as John stood and padded forward, hesitantly speaking his friend's name, Sherlock sat up straight and turned those shocked grey eyes on the wolf. Before John could even ask what that was all about, Sherlock's old mask of coolness descended over his expression. He stood, turning to lick the fur on his shoulder to flatten it from where it had been ruffled.

_Sherlock, what was that about?_

_ Nothing, John._ _It's nothing._ With a flick of his tail, Sherlock disappeared into the bushes again, and John silently followed.

He couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was hiding something, and that that something was important. Something was off; John could tell in the way Sherlock's enthusiasm had suddenly died, replaced with surprise. Just what had pulled him off track like that?

He didn't ask, because he knew Sherlock wouldn't answer.

Instead, John just followed him back to the doors of the Resort, so they could be inside in time for class.

* * *

This was very not good. Liz played with the bracelet on her wrist in a nervous motion as she stood outside her boss's door. Tucked under her arm was a folder, containing various reports and studies on the students, but what her boss wanted was the memory stick that was also inside. As soon as he'd caught wind of what was happening, he'd demanded that the information be brought to him immediately, and who could refuse him? Certainly not Liz. He was far too intimidating, much too powerful for anyone to deny him what he wanted.

And, of course, he was well aware that she was hesitating outside. Steeling herself, Liz entered his office; she pulled on a façade of confidence, her head held high and her shoulders pushed back.

The office was simple; there was a desk which her boss was sitting behind, a few bookshelves here and there, a single photo on the wall of the forest, and one window. A young man was stood beside it, staring outside with his back to the room. His hands were clasped behind his back and he paid no attention to the woman. She ignored him, too; Liz turned her attention to the man who was watching her.

His eyes were a deep, dark brown, and what was left of his greying hair was slicked back against his head. He was thin and there was hardly any muscle on the man, but there was an aura of power about him, the sort that said _'disagree with me, and it will be the last thing you do'_. With a quick glance at his son by the window, Liz felt a shiver run down her spine without even seeing the boy's face; she had the feeling that this sort of power ran in the family.

Liz bowed her head, a tight smile on her lips. "Good evening, sir."

He didn't return the smile. "Good evening. You brought the USB?" That was Mr. Moriarty – straight to business.

After a moment's awkward fumbling through the file, Liz produced the little device and passed it over. Her boss inserted it into his laptop and, when it had loaded, opened the folder labelled _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. _

As the man read – muttering under his breath as he did so – the lad by the window slowly turned to watch his father. Liz wasn't on the receiving end of his look, but it still made her uneasy; his eyes – which matched the brown of his father's completely – were blank, aside from a slight glimmer of curiosity in them. His face was expressionless. It was disturbing to see how smooth he could keep his face; he couldn't have been any older than most of the students, and yet he was cold, almost disconnected from the world around him.

Liz's boss looked up sharply, drawing her focus back to him. "It says here that Holmes elected to take part in the experiment. Is this true?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you're certain it had all of the same effects on him? Including the memory loss?"

"Yes, sir."

He fell silent. Liz followed his son's example and kept her face blank. After a beat, he returned his gaze to the laptop's screen. "And here… Odd behaviour. Like what?"

"Becoming close with Watson, for one," Liz explained. "He's never shown any interest in making friends before. And we have reason to believe that they found one of the cameras just recently. If you open the file-"

"Yes, yes, I see the one, thank you." Mr. Moriarty cut in, waving one hand as he selected one of the video files. Liz wouldn't have noticed his son drifting over if she hadn't glanced over at him. He quite literally prowled across the room to peer over his father's shoulder. Was it just Liz's imagination, or did Mr. Moriarty cringe away from his son slightly?

Through the speakers, Liz heard the growls and yowls that the two students made as they spoke in their animal forms. God knew what they had actually been talking about; as of yet, Liz and the other members of staff had found no way to translate the conversations students had in the forest, aside from their body language.

Liz noticed the precise moment when her boss reached the final clip. His shoulders stiffened, and his son's eyes lit up with excitement.

_Bang!_

Mr. Moriarty's fist slammed onto the table and he growled in anger. "Doctor, you do remember that you cannot allow _any of the students_ to discover this, don't you?" He didn't give her a chance to speak; he continued, his voice rising in anger. "Holmes was a risk from the start! He's far too intelligent to keep all of this from! And answer me this: _how can we know what they say?_ We can't, can we? For all we know, they could be plotting, scheming, figuring things out!"

"Sir-"

She quailed under his glare.

"Holmes and Watson must be separated, preferably _before_ they do any damage. I suggest-"

"Father."

Liz's boss fell silent. He glanced to the side, at his son. There was a smile curling at the corners of the young man's lips as he stared at the screen; he studied the leopard's digital form with an almost tender expression on his face, and he leaned forwards to tap the screen with the tip of his nail.

The man worked his jaw, fighting back his anger, and he spoke over-politely to his son. "Yes, Jim?"

Jim smiled widely, and Liz actually did shudder this time. He bared his teeth in a feral grin, which he turned up onto the ceiling when he straightened. "Allow me to join them, Father."

"Out of the question!" Mr. Moriarty snapped instantly, waving a dismissive hand. "Don't be ridiculous, boy! The danger that would place you in-"

"I can easily deal with," he cut in smoothly, raising his eyebrows. Their gazes locked, and Liz had the feeling that she was intruding on something that she had no right to see. Jim's expression had slipped into a cold, intimidating mask and, incredibly, she could see her boss succumbing to his own son. There was a glint of something in his usually angry stare.

It looked like fear.

"This is what will happen." Jim flicked his gaze over to Liz, the smirk returning to his mouth. "You, dear, will take me to the lab and do what is necessary to add me to the experiment. You will both remind me of who I am, and in return I will discover whatever it is those two are up to, enabling you to take the course of action required to stop them."

"But, son," Mr. Moriarty protested, albeit weakly, "are you certain? You've wanted this for a long time, but it's not completely safe yet. People have _died-_"

"I'm well aware of that." Jim rolled his shoulders in an odd shrug. "I get what I want, and you get information. What have you got to lose, Father?"

Silence.

Jim chuckled quietly. Then he clapped his hands once and trilled, "Off we go, then! Elizabeth, be a dear and take me along to the lab now, won't you?"

Liz looked to her boss for confirmation. He gave a tiny, resigned nod. Leaving him with the USB, Liz led the way through the winding corridors to the lab, where those with the necessary information to perform the experiment were waiting.

She'd gone into Mr. Moriarty's to deliver a few simple observations, and she'd left with a new test subject. And yet, there was something about Jim Moriarty that told her that he didn't plan on sitting around idly, letting Holmes and Watson go about their business.

The glimmer of triumph in his eyes told her that she was right.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Ah, the moment when inspiration strikes is always my favourite. It just so happens that it has happened here, thank goodness. But I'll say no more, other than 'Enjoy!'**

* * *

The boys' dorm was silent and dark. All of the adolescents had been asleep for several hours now – all except for Sherlock. He hadn't even changed into the pyjamas they were provided with. No, instead he was sat on his pillow, his knees drawn up to his chest and his fingers pressed together under his chin. It was at times like these, when there was perfect silence, that he found it easiest to sort through his thoughts.

The flicker of a frown passed over his features before he smoothed it out. Sherlock glanced at John and, before he could stop it, his eyebrows drew in and turned down again, despite his attempts to keep his face expressionless. His friend was perfectly relaxed while he slept; John didn't seem to notice the tension that lined his shoulders when he was awake, but Sherlock did. He never understood why it was there, but he didn't ask or even comment on it. And yet, when he was unconscious, it all drained away, leaving him looking blank innocent and... vulnerable.

Sherlock turned his face away with a quiet growl of frustration, fixing his gaze on the opposite wall instead. He was well aware that the level of affection he felt towards John was far above that of 'just friends'; through observing the friendships between other students, he noticed that they didn't quite interact in the same ways as he and John did. Sherlock didn't quite know how to describe it. There seemed to be less... warmth in their expressions when they looked at each other, but Sherlock could practically feel it bubbling pleasantly in his chest when he shared a glance with John. Oddly, Sherlock didn't have a problem with that.

He brushed that particular topic away with a flick of his hand, and instead turned to more important thoughts.

Sherlock felt his throat close up with an unfamiliar feeling of grief when he addressed the situation. Earlier that day, when he'd found the camera in the forest with John, it hadn't only been surveillance equipment that he'd discovered.

No, Sherlock had remembered something.

It was a short memory, but he clung to it; it was proof that there was something not quite right here, and it was a window into the outside world. He let his eyes close as he ran it by again, savouring the details. Even if it did involve his older brother, it was something, and Sherlock wanted to remember every little bit as clearly as if it had happened mere moments ago.

* * *

_Mycroft stares at me, the hint of a pained expression on his face before he hides it away. Idiot, of course I've seen it; he should know by now that he can't get anything past me. Honestly, does he really think he can pretend it didn't happen? I raise an eyebrow in question, but he brushes it off._

_ "Sherlock," he begins, but I cut in, impatient as always._

_ "Spare me your rubbish," I spit, rolling my eyes. "I don't have the time for it." I turn away, aware that I'm acting childish, but I can't find it in myself to act more mature. I don't _want_ to act more mature. I don't want to seem like Mycroft, or be the well-behaved teen that Mummy wants me to be. That's far too dull._

_ Mycroft sighs, appearing resigned to my decision. "One day your stubbornness is going to get you into trouble, brother, and I won't be around to help you. You'll have no one to blame but yourself, and no one to get you out of your mess."_

_ I turn my nose up at him, wrinkling it in distaste. "I don't need your help, or anyone else's for that matter. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."_

_ My brother gives me a look that I label as 'pity'. I loathe that look, and have done for a long time. "Sherlock-" he begins._

_ "Mycroft," I cut in warningly._

_ It is a familiar situation we find ourselves in now; both unwilling to change our own views to appease the other. Now it is a simple matter of seeing who breaks off the glare first. Usually, we have to wait for something or someone to distract us, we are so dedicated to our task, but today we both admit defeat and glance away at the same time. I sniff and turn on the spot before stalking back to my room. I stamp on the stairs with perhaps a little bit more force than is necessary._

_No doubt Mummy would have something to say about that if she was home. Fortunately, she isn't, and she won't be home until evening, when Mycroft and I will probably be on more amiable terms again._

_ "I won't change my mind, Mycroft," I call over my shoulder._

_ I can imagine the withering stare he gives my back all too easily. "I know."_

* * *

Sherlock frowned to himself, sighing quietly. Carefully, he stored the memory away in a secure corner of his brain for safekeeping; there was no chance of him losing that memory again, no matter how small it was.

But, despite being one of his more treasured thoughts, it didn't quite make it into the room of his Mind Palace that was left just for John.

"Sherlock…"

The boy in question snapped his head up, facing the call. He didn't hide the affection in his gaze as he looked at John this time; everyone was asleep, and John was the only person he was ever truly open to. Sherlock was rarely honest to himself, but he just couldn't deny John. "Yes?" he murmured in reply.

But it turned out that John had only sighed his name while he was asleep; even as Sherlock watched, his friend turned over, mumbled again and then stayed quiet. It was only when Sherlock realised that he had a small smile on his lips that he looked away again, forcing it away. He huffed, then curled up on his side.

Perhaps it would do to try and get some rest after all.

* * *

The next morning was a weekend. The students of the Resort lingered in the main room with its plush sofas and comfortable atmosphere, and others prowled through the woods, playing games or simply relaxing in the peace. However, once again the weather was dismal and bitterly cold, so only those with thick coats braved the outdoors.

Sherlock and John found themselves indoors anyway, despite being quite happy to head outside, but John had wanted to spend some time with Greg and Molly, so Sherlock had admitted defeat this time. While John was seated in one of the circles of chairs with his friends, chatting and laughing, Sherlock lurked behind him, appearing bored. But he wasn't though, not really, as he spent his time glancing around the room, studying the way other students interacted with each other. Occasionally, Sherlock would comment on the conversation; John would chuckle, Greg would try to hide his smile and Molly would laugh quietly. Most of the time, however, Sherlock let the mostly trivial topics wash past him.

Which was why Sherlock was one of the few who noticed what happened.

Across the room was one of the older boys. He was laidback and while he was fairly quiet, he could often be seen happily talking to the other students in an almost amused manner. Sherlock had dismissed him as unworthy of his attention long ago, like most of the others, but there was something… off.

He was clearly waiting for someone. Sherlock's train of thought ran away with him as his gaze darted over him, and he soon lost track of the conversation. His brain quickly supplied him with information that went something like this:

_Glancing expectantly at the door; waiting for someone. That door is usually locked, it leads to the corridors – a member of staff, then. Perhaps he needs a visit to the infirmary? Unlikely, he is not injured and shows no signs of illness. _

_ A new student, then. He must be providing help for a new student. It's unlikely he's being called away to be removed; he's done nothing wrong. If anything, John and I should be taken away, but we've been careful._

Sherlock tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. The boy – Sebastian, Sherlock remembered he was called – caught his gaze and held it for a moment, appearing confused but unconcerned, before shrugging and looking back at the door again.

Almost as if on cue, there was the soft click of the lock, and the door swung open, allowing one of the adults to walk in. Surprisingly, it was one that Sherlock didn't recognise; he'd made sure he knew the faces of everyone who came and went in this part of the Resort, but then he supposed that he must be a fresh recruit. The eager light in his eyes told him so. There was a quick, hushed conversation between him and Sebastian, and then he went to wait by the door. The pause was because Sebastian took his time getting up. He stood, stretched lazily like a cat – which, coincidentally, he was. He was a tiger – and then strolled over to the door. Both of them left without exchanging another word.

Sherlock heard John say his name, so he nodded towards what had just happened. John cocked his head to the side. Sherlock had to suppress the urge to chuckle as he pictured wolf ears on his friend's head, flicking back and forth. The image of John and his animal combined in that way was oddly amusing.

"What was that about?" he asked, frowning.

"I believe that we will have another student joining us," Sherlock murmured. He frowned. As far as he was aware, all of the beds in both dorms were full, so how could they possibly accommodate another person? Sherlock perched on the arm of John's chair and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. With a soft huff, he fell silent, refusing to offer any more information.

While Greg and Molly began speculating about who this person could be - of course they'd listened in, how annoying - Sherlock had more pressing things to think about: why was someone new being introduced if there was no room? They usually removed one of the students if they were going to bring in someone else; Sherlock had seen it happen before. And yet, that hadn't happened…

Perhaps it was urgent?

He was startled out of his mind by a gentle prod in the side from John's elbow. He even had to place a hand on the back of the armchair to steady himself. Peering down at his friend, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question.

John beckoned for Sherlock to lean down, and when he did, he covered his mouth and quietly said, "You're thinking about things too much again. Stop it. I can pretty much hear the gears in your brain turning."

Sherlock frowned. "But, _John_," he whined, making no attempt to lower his voice.

"No buts. Stop it."

It was only when they heard quiet sniggering from opposite them that they noticed that the other two had overheard again - they had an irritating habit of doing that, Sherlock thought idly. Humour was sparkling in Greg's eyes, and as he grinned at the pair of them, he waved his hand. "Oh, no, don't let us stop you. You two lovebirds need to work something out, go ahead."

"What?" John's eyes widened, and then he began to splutter. "No- we're not- Greg, I'm not-"

John's words fell on deaf ears; Greg roared with laughter, Molly broke down into giggles, and even Sherlock's lips twitched upwards in amusement. When John caught sight of the look his best friend was directing at him, one with genuine happiness lingering in it, John gave in and let himself laugh, too.

* * *

Sebastian padded through the woods, an odd smile tugging on the corners of his muzzle as he weaved through the threes. Overhead, the new student he had been asked to show around was bounding from branch to branch. There was something almost childish in the other boy's glee at being an animal, and Sebastian got the feeling that he'd been wanting it for a while - but he couldn't understand that, because that would have to mean that he'd known about all of this, wouldn't it? With a huff of laughter, the tiger flicked his tail and quickened his pace to keep up.

It had been an odd meeting with this new guy. Sebastian had never had to meet one of the fresh students before, but he'd heard stories from people who had. He'd been taken into the infirmary and had fully expected the other boy to be asleep, but that wasn't what he'd seen at all.

There had been a freaking _panther_ perched on the bed, tail curled over its paws, dark brown eyes staring expectantly at the door.

The hair on the back of Sebastian's neck had prickled uneasily. Usually, students weren't that skilled at transforming so easily, and they normally couldn't until later on their first day; never had he heard of one that changed in the infirmary. Even while Sebastian had fought the urge to growl at the strangeness of the situation, the panther had arched his back and smoothly turned back into his human form.

He hadn't even fallen to his knees during the transformation, despite the pain that must have shuddered through his muscles at the effortless change. How had he managed to do that? He had simply stood, tugged the sheets from the bed and tied it around his waist to hide the fact that he was naked, and then he'd smiled with sharp white teeth at Sebastian. "Don't worry yourself," he'd purred, "no need to rush to get here."

Originally, Sebastian had been ready to just walk out without even a goodbye. But there had been something… compelling about this new guy, something that drew him towards him.

And now there they were, exploring the woods.

_Sebby!_ Jim called.

Sebastian paused, one paw in the air, and tipped his muzzle upwards. He could just see the shape of the new student in the shadows of the tree, and the glint of his fangs in the darkness. There was a faint rustle, and then the panther's head appeared in the leaves.

_Yeah?_ Sebastian replied.

There was an amused growl from Jim. _I picked up a scent. I don't suppose you could tell me who it belongs to?_

Sebastian strolled over to the foot of Jim's tree and flared his nostrils. It actually turned out that Jim had found the trail of two students, but he wasn't to know that. One was stronger than the other, closer to the ground; it was earthy and almost… warm. The other was sharper, and it stung as Sebastian breathed it in, prickling his nose. He rolled his shoulders, orange and black striped fur rippling as he shrugged. _Sherlock and John. Never spoken to 'em. _

Was it just Sebastian's imagination, or did he hear a purr of satisfaction? Huh. Weird.

Jim didn't hesitate with his reply. _We're going after them._

Like before, Sebastian actually ended up following Jim instead of leading the way. It turned out that Jim's senses were pretty damn keen, as he didn't need to pause to scent the air again as he leaped across the branches, barely touching them with his paws before springing away again. Rolling his eyes with a snort, Sebastian pushed himself into a sprint to keep up with him.

It was only through his brilliant eyesight as a tiger that Sebastian noticed the subtle flick of Jim's tail that told him to stay back. He slipped into the bushes nearby, and he briefly wondered why he was obeying the other boy's orders, but soon brushed it off. He'd think on that later.

Besides, he was interested to see what Jim had in mind.

Sebastian cocked his head to the side as he peered through the leaves to find Jim, crouching comfortably to wait. His eyes widened when he saw just what he did, and he had to stifle a purr of amusement.

A leopard and a wolf were walking side by side, speaking quietly, occasionally glancing around themselves for signs of being watched, but they relied more on the flicks of their ears to alert them to anyone's approach. Unfortunately for them, they didn't notice Jim from his perch in a tree overhead. Sebastian held in his laughter by grinning as the panther suddenly jumped down onto the ground; the wolf yelped in surprise, then stiffened, his hackles rising, while the leopard merely glanced over lazily. He didn't seem shocked at all by the presence of the panther.

_And who might you be?_ Sherlock drawled in a bored sounding voice, his gaze flicking up and down the new student. There wasn't even one hair on his pelt that was ruffled. Sebastian had to admit that he was impressed.

The smile that stretched across Jim's muzzle was almost a leer; Sebastian bit back a chuckle when he saw that _that_ got a subtle response out of Sherlock, even if it was just a twitch of the muscles in his shoulders.

_Jim Moriarty. Hi!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Nothing to report this chapter, other than more ideas for the plot forming in my head. I rather like where these are going. *Rubs her hands together, grinning***

* * *

One of the first things Sherlock noticed about Jim was his use of his surname. None of the students knew their last name, and there Jim was, cheerily announcing that his was 'Moriarty'. Sherlock filed that away in his Mind Palace for future reference.

And then there was his animal.

Jim was a panther. Sherlock was a leopard. They were the same, only their pelts were different colours. Sherlock could hazard a guess that Jim was very like Sherlock, but… darker. Judging character on a person's animal form wasn't an exact science; a person could change over time, and that would cancel out any meaning behind it, seeing as it wouldn't change with the personality – not that Sherlock had seen, anyway. A perfect example of this was Molly. Originally she had been a meek little creature, but now she had come out of her shell somewhat.

Next was the scent on Jim's fur.

If Sherlock breathed deeply – and he did, flaring his nostrils slightly – he could pick up the distinct smell of disinfectant and cleanliness. Jim couldn't have been out of the infirmary for very long if he could still pick up those traces, which meant he was on his first trip around the Resort.

Someone else had to be nearby. No new student went around the Resort on their own. So where was this person? Sherlock flicked his ears and twitched his nose in an attempt to locate him or her, but he found nothing. He wished he could tell John – his wolf nose was sharper than Sherlock's – but if Jim's animal form _was_ anything to go by, he was smart, which meant that Sherlock wouldn't be able to get anything by him.

It was likely that John hadn't picked up on any of this.

_Who are you?_ Jim asked, his eyes glittering with excitement. Sherlock frowned; there was a slight lilting tone to his voice, a definite accent, but he couldn't place it.

Damn the memory loss. Sherlock had no doubt that he would've been able to identify it if he had all of his old thoughts.

_Sherlock_, the leopard replied frostily, his tail twitching across the ground. _And this is John._

Jim's gaze slid over to John, and an odd, curling smile pulled on his muzzle. Sherlock felt John stiffen next to him, and saw his hackles rising out of the corners of his eyes; he brushed his tail against John's flank in a silent warning. 'Don't react', it meant.

After a beat, John relaxed again.

_Pleasure to meet you,_ Jim purred, returning his attention to Sherlock. _I only just arrived. Fascinating, isn't it? All of this?_

_ Very,_ Sherlock responded in a dry, bored tone. And then, for lack of anything better to add, he said, _You know your surname._

_ I know yours, too._ Jim raised his eyebrows in an expression that seemed odd on the face of a panther, but still worked. He ran his tongue over his lips and grinned widely, baring his fangs. However, instead of divulging that information to Sherlock, he turned to John with a distinct glitter in his eyes. _Yours as well, John Watson._

Sherlock heard the breath whoosh out of John's lungs, as if Jim had shoved his shoulder into his chest. John whined softly, his lips curling back again. _How-_

But before John could even form his question, Jim flicked his tail and grinned at them. _Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off… Things to do, people to meet, and all that. Au revoir!_ As he turned away, Jim's gaze lingered on Sherlock's a moment longer, and then he vanished into the bushes. There was a brief rustling as he slipped between the leaves, and then he was gone.

Sherlock and John were silent for a while. John had sat back on his haunches and bowed his muzzle to the ground. Sherlock merely narrowed his eyes at the spot where Jim had left, as if by glaring at it he could find the answers he needed. Eventually, Sherlock spoke up. It was a wonder that John couldn't hear the gears in his brain turning, Sherlock's mind was whirring so much. Thoughts, theories, idle comments, all spinning around and around until they blurred into an image that made some sense.

_He's baiting me._

John raised his head, furrowing his brow. _How can you tell?_

_ He told us your surname but not mine. He's testing me. Provoking me. He wants me to go to him for more information._ Sherlock flicked his ears in irritation, but the fur on his shoulders stayed smooth. While it was certainly an annoying situation, Sherlock couldn't help being fascinated.

He was surprised by the force with which John reacted. The wolf shoved Sherlock's shoulder with his head, a low growl slipping between his teeth. _Don't do it, Sherlock. _

_ Do what?_

_ Go back to him!_ John pushed himself to his feet again and began to pace. Jim's revelation had unsettled him, obviously, Sherlock noted. It was probably just because of that that John was so anxious. _He felt like bad news, Sherlock. I couldn't shake the feeling. Something was just-_

_ Off,_ Sherlock finished, perking up. John was learning to observe, that was good. Perhaps he'd be able to use his newfound skills to work out Jim's motives. But there was still worry lingering in John's eyes, so Sherlock hesitantly leaned forward to bump his nose against his furry cheek. _It will be fine. I promise._

* * *

John wasn't scared of Jim, far from it. No, he'd been shocked. Shocked that he'd known his surname. _John Watson. _It fitted, he supposed.

Well, it had to have done if it had triggered a memory.

It was only an image, nothing more than that, but it was enough to soothe him. It was simple, too, but still relieving. A young girl, one with a round face and a wide, toothy smile. His little sister, Harriet. John didn't know how she was currently, but the knowledge that he had a sibling – and therefore a family – helped. He rested easier that night, more deeply and soundly.

And while John was in that fulfilling sleep, Sherlock crept out of the dormitories. He wasn't really supposed to be out of that room at night, unless he needed the bathroom, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the staff would be unusually lenient in this case. Still wearing that day's clothes, he padded out into the corridor and down to the main room.

He wasn't surprised by what – or, rather, who he saw.

A boy that could only be Jim was reclining in one of the armchairs with his back to Sherlock. As he moved around, he raised an eyebrow; the boy was wearing a crisp, clean suit, complete with shiny leather shoes. There was no way any of the other students would be given clothes like that to wear. Sherlock's usual clothing was a simple white shirt and old jeans, which was what most of the boys were supplied with.

But then, Jim Moriarty wasn't just any student, was he?

At the sound of Sherlock's soft footsteps, Jim's head turned sharply to face him. A smile curled across his lips. "You just couldn't resist, could you?"

Sherlock schooled his expression into a blank stare. "I assure you, I'm more than capable of resisting."

"Go on, then." Jim flicked his hand back towards the dormitories. "Off you pop. Go back to bed. Nighty night, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite!"

Sherlock didn't move. Jim's smile widened.

"Good boy," Jim praised in a patronising tone, as if he was a parent cooing over the fact that his child had just eaten all of his vegetables. "Have a seat, Sherlock, and we'll talk. How does that sound?"

"I'd rather stand, thank you." Sherlock felt too agitated to sit. His skin was crawling, and he could feel the leopard in the back of his mind flattening its ears with a growl. It didn't trust Jim at all, and neither did Sherlock. Instead, he went and leaned again the wall opposite the other boy, arranging his long limbs lazily but comfortably. When he was sorted, he allowed his cool gaze to focus on Jim's almost childishly excited one. Jim didn't comment on Sherlock's preference, but he did smirk a bit before settling back in his seat.

"How did you know I would come back?" Sherlock asked after a silence that was stretching on too long for his liking.

"Oh, that's easy," Jim snorted. "You're intelligent. Curious. Like me. You just can't leave a question unanswered, can you?" He tilted his head to the side slowly, letting his eyes roam over Sherlock's form. "You need to know. It's like an ache, a tug in your stomach… Always there, never lessening…"

Sherlock's lip curled in a pale, human imitation of a snarl. In his head, the leopard unsheathed its claws and bared its teeth. Jim was, of course, right; Sherlock had a hunger for knowledge that he couldn't sate. "But why? Wanting to know, wanting to learn about my past is normal. If you'd dangled that treat in front of anyone here they would have reacted the same." He leaned forwards, eyes narrowing. "But why me?"

Jim's expression could only be described as glee. "Because we're the same, you and I. Didn't you notice it when we first met? Didn't you feel it? We're the same."

Of course he had. Leopard and panther; both intelligent, sly and deadly.

However, instead of agreeing, Sherlock said, "That doesn't answer my question."

A flicker of a grimace passed over Jim's features before it vanished again. "I just told you the answer," he whined, pouting. "I'm like you. I want to learn. You want information on yourself, _I_ want this." He waved a hand, gesturing at the building around them. "I need to know about this as much as you need to know about yourself. You understand, don't you?"

He did, naturally.

It would've worried Sherlock how much he could sympathise with Jim if he hadn't been so fascinated.

"What do you want to know? You're experiencing it now." Perhaps enjoying it more than the rest of them, too. Sherlock had the feeling that Jim had chosen this for himself; he was in the favour of the staff, obviously – they were both out in the common room without anyone shooing them away, for a start.

Jim's answering smile made him look like the cat that got the cream – which, Sherlock supposed, he was, in a way.

"The adults want to study one of you in closer detail," he said. Jim was obviously aware of how much Sherlock knew. Maybe he and John hadn't been as subtle as they'd thought, or maybe Jim was just smart. "If you allow them to do so, I will tell you bits and pieces about yourself."

"That isn't learning more for your own purposes," Sherlock pointed out. "That's for them."

"I know," Jim purred. He held up his hands in a 'What can you do?' gesture.

Sherlock pressed his hands together and put the tips of them against his mouth as he thought. It would be a perfect opportunity to map out the areas of the Resort he hadn't been to. Perhaps if he could access some of their equipment, he'd be able to get a message out somehow. Sherlock frowned, clutching at the wisp of a memory that was just out of his grip. He needed to remember more if he wanted to be able to contact Mycroft.

As annoying as his brother was, he was the only way Sherlock would be able to free himself, John and all of the others.

When Sherlock hesitated to give an answer, Jim stood, slipping his hands into his pockets. He moved with the easy grace of a feline, something that Sherlock didn't quite lose when he was human, either.

It was beginning to worry him how much they had in common. He knew that John definitely wouldn't like it if he was aware of the similarities.

Jim didn't speak, but his dark brown eyes fixed on Sherlock's icy blue ones, silently encouraging him. Sherlock could almost hear Jim's thoughts, because he was thinking them, too.

_For the good of science._

_ You'll learn more about yourself._

_ Isn't it a fair exchange? A few tests for information?_

_ Surely a person like yourself could understand._

But Sherlock wasn't done with fishing for information. He tilted his head up, so his mouth was away from his fingertips, and asked, "How often would you give me information, and just how much are you willing to tell me?"

Jim laughed softly, delight spreading across his face; Sherlock was considering the offer, then. "It depends on how much the scientists learn, dear." Sherlock grimaced at the use of the term, but didn't comment on it. Jim didn't leave him room to, anyway. "As long as you keep up your end of the promise, I'll fulfil mine."

Sherlock would gain from this, he knew it. He'd get a lot more than the adults would. Not only would he learn about himself – saving himself a lot of headaches and grabbing at faint memories only to lose them again – he would be able to discover the area beyond the locked doors of the Resort.

"What do you say?" Jim prompted.

Clinging to the hope that he'd be able to save John from spending much more time here, Sherlock nodded.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: Apologies for the delay! I was away in half term and didn't have much time to write.**

* * *

Sherlock sighed heavily, suppressing a roll of his eyes as he overheard a few of the adults that were lingering in the examination room. He was jogging along at a steady pace on a treadmill, various tabs stuck onto his skin, and they seemed to think that that would somehow impair his hearing. True, Sherlock's heart was beating just that little bit louder in his ears because of the exercise, but it didn't drown out every other sound around him. Still, he didn't comment on it; he was learning some very interesting pieces of information.

He'd done several tests now throughout the first day, but he was certain that they had plenty more queued up. They'd weighed him, measured his height, checked his general health, and now they were testing his stamina by making him run. He could go much faster if he wished, but he kept to the set pace without any argument. From what he was hearing, the ones they were most anxious to try would be less… 'moral' than the ones so far. He'd heard them mention that they wished to test his pain threshold, for example, but Sherlock didn't feel that he had any cause to be wary yet; so far, they hadn't done anything without his permission, and they made sure that he was comfortable with the tests before they even let him anywhere near the equipment.

Although, this _was_ rather boring. He'd be the first to admit that he was curious about how much agony he could withstand, too. However, Sherlock would change the grey treadmill and dull white walls of the lab for the green woods and John by his side any day.

And that was another point. Sherlock was well aware that he felt more than friendship for John, but for once he wasn't entirely sure what the wolf felt for him exactly, which was why Sherlock hadn't brought it up. Sherlock's mind wandered into parts of his Mind Palace labelled as 'wishful thinking'; he found himself being jerked out of his thoughts by the machine slowing to a walk, then to a halt, and the adults swarming on him to remove the wires, and had to admit that he was slightly annoyed by his drifting brain.

Once he was free of any restraints, they allowed him to come off of the treadmill. Liz – he remembered her name, at least, she was fairly noteworthy as a kind and somewhat interesting person – instantly came over to present him with the next test. Sherlock couldn't help but snort. They wanted to try out his reaction times now. How dull.

Still, they would move him to another room, and it would give him another opportunity to correct his mental map of the layout.

Later, he politely declined the test that involved electric shocks.

* * *

John knew that Sherlock was more than capable of looking after himself. The other boy was a leopard, after all; they were known for being independent creatures. But he hadn't seen him since the day before, when they'd first met Jim Moriarty, and John couldn't help being worried sick.

There was something off about Jim, there was no denying that. And now Sherlock was missing. He'd checked the woods, but John had already known that Sherlock's scent there would be stale. While human, his nose wasn't as sensitive, but his sense of smell was still sharper than that of a human's. John had found his trail leading to the locked door the moment he'd stepped out into the common room.

What was even more worrying was the fact that Jim's was over the top of that.

Ever since then, he'd been hanging around in the main room, shoulders tense and an anxious look on his face. Greg was the only one who had approached him, and when John had told him that Sherlock was nowhere to be found, Greg had simply brushed it off. _"He's probably getting some peace and quiet, John. At the end of the day, he's still a cat; they like being alone sometimes, and you know what he's like. Don't worry, he'll turn up."_

John hated to admit that Greg was right. He would just have to sit tight and wait.

It wasn't until long after dinner that Sherlock returned that day. By then most of the other students had gone outside for their evening run around, but John had decided not to. It probably would've benefited him to go out, but just as the last of the adolescents were disappearing down the corridor that led to the woods, the door on the opposite side of the room opened and Sherlock wandered in. As soon as he spotted John, the corners of his lips twitched up into a half-smile and he gave John a wave.

It was safe to say that the wolf wasn't pleased.

John strode across the room, his worry now boiling over into anger. He curled his hands into fists at his sides. "Where the hell have you been?" he spat. "You just vanished! Not a word!"

Another spark of irritation lit up when John saw the faint amusement in Sherlock's eyes, followed by something that was almost... pleased. "Goodness, John. I, for one, didn't think you'd be so anxious. I'm fine. See?" Sherlock spread his arms. "Perfectly fine. No need to worry."

"There was every need to worry, you idiot!" John gestured towards the way to the woods and added, "What about Jim? We found him yesterday, I _told_ you I had a bad feeling, and you were gone without a trace. I found your bloody scent going to that damn door. Jim's, too! What the hell was _I supposed_ to think?"

Sherlock was silent. His gaze had softened, and now there was an almost sheepish expression on his face – if one could call a slightly gentler stare 'sheepish'. He seemed to consider something, and then he raised his arms and tugged John into a hug. "I apologise for giving you cause to worry," he said quietly, resting his chin on John's head.

For a moment, John was still and unresponsive. But then he relaxed and slowly returned Sherlock's hold. It was nice, he had to admit it. Comfortable. Almost… natural.

"Just… warn me next time you plan on disappearing, ok?" The _'I wouldn't know if something had happened to you'_ remained unspoken, but John was certain that Sherlock understood.

However, it seemed that the leopard was determined to steer things carefully away from that topic. Sherlock chuckled softly. "We'll see. I don't tend to do that," he said into John's hair, determined to keep the tone of the conversation light.

John poked Sherlock's back. "Git," he said cheerfully.

After a moment, John went to draw back, but Sherlock's arms tightened and held him in place. He wriggled, squirming so he could peer up at Sherlock with a frown. "Shouldn't I be the one refusing to let you go? You did run off on me..."

There was something in Sherlock's expression that made John's half joke die on his tongue, but John couldn't quite determine what it was. Sherlock looked like he was deliberating something again, and John couldn't help but wonder what was possibly going through that head of his.

He didn't have to wait for long.

Sherlock ducked his head and pecked John's cheek.

John froze again, but in surprise rather than petulance this time. He felt Sherlock hesitate and then put a little bit of distance between them. "Not good?" he asked.

He cleared his throat and turned his head to the side, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "No," John replied, his voice quieter and less joking. Sherlock started to move away at John's response, but the wolf didn't let go, holding onto the other boy in much the same manner as Sherlock had. "Definitely good," he corrected.

Sherlock didn't speak for a second, and then he breathed, "Oh." And after a slight pause, "Is that why you were worried?"

John shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. I suppose. Didn't really, uh, think about it much. Or this."

To his surprise, the leopard snorted, but then gathered him back into his arms. "You're an idiot, John."

"Ruining the moment, Sherlock."

"Then I will endeavour to fix it." And without any further conversation, Sherlock tilted John's chin up and kissed him.

* * *

"How interesting."

"Hardly. Anyone would see _this_ coming from a mile off." Jim waved his hand at the screen, rolling his eyes.

Jim was in the surveillance room with Liz, Ian the technician, Jim's father and Sebastian. While Ian brought up various pieces of footage for Liz and Mr. Moriarty to study, Jim stood just a little bit behind them with Sebastian at his side. He commented on various points, but otherwise left them alone. It was dull work, but he needed to pay attention.

However, when the image of the wolf and the leopard twined together had appeared, Jim had felt a smirk curl across his lips and he hadn't been able to help himself. The opportunity was just too perfect. It gave him the perfect ammunition. It was an effort to keep a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat off of his features.

"Elizabeth, pass me your file of notes on Sherlock's test." Jim held out his hand and simply waited. He didn't ask again; his commanding tone had been clear enough. Liz passed them over, and all Jim needed was a quick glance over the papers to confirm his suspicions. "He opted out of the pain test." It was almost a question, but more of a statement. Jim was more than a bit disappointed; he'd expected Sherlock's curiosity to outweigh his wariness on that one.

Liz nodded, accepting the file back from Jim. "We gave him the option of selecting which tests we conducted, and he refused."

"Well then, Father." Jim clapped his hands once and turned to Mr. Moriarty with a full-blown grin. "It looks like we can hit two birds with one stone. Or perhaps the term 'two beasts with one wave' would be more appropriate. Either works perfectly well."

Mr. Moriarty turned in his chair, narrowing his eyes. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You need the data on how much pain Sherlock can take, and those students need to be reminded that they are not in control." There was an excited glitter in Jim's eyes, one that made concern curl in Liz's stomach. "I am prepared with an idea, Father."

"Another?" Mr. Moriarty asked. He tried to raise a challenge in his tone, but he quailed under Jim's warning stare.

"Yes, another. My first has worked out perfectly well, has it not? I can tell you, for example, that through trailing Sherlock and his wolf, that they have discovered several cameras in the woods, and that Sherlock has made assumptions based on them, most of which are correct. Based on that and the information that I still hold, you should trust me." Jim's expression melted into one that wasn't much more than a expressionless stare, and it would have been a simple mask if it wasn't for the anger that turned the look into a glare.

Silence but for the whir of the computers.

Mr. Moriarty reluctantly nodded. "Fine."

Jim's cheery smile returned to his features. "Good. If you'll allow me to speak to the emergency teams, we can have this well underway by tomorrow. The sooner the better, don't you think?"

With Mr. Moriarty's permission – not that Jim needed it – he almost skipped down the maze of corridors to reach the quarters of the emergency teams. They were made up of people who were given the duty of leaping into action if a student ever became violent in his or her animal form. They rarely had anything to do, as nobody ever thought of attempting to fight back. How dull.

Sebastian kept up with Jim easily, his longer legs allowing him to stay by his side. "What do you plan on doing?"

Jim simply smiled widely, baring his teeth in a gesture more suited to his panther. "I plan to fight, Tiger," he purred. "Sherlock is too much of a danger now - he's far too intelligent to simply remain a student - but he's valuable. May as well use him until there's nothing left." He gestured at the door that led back to the main area and added, "Go and see if you can find anyone that would be of help, but don't let anyone know what's going on. I'm certain you might be able to find a handful of willing participants."

Sebastian slipped back through into the students' area of the Resort while Jim carried on down the corridor. He eventually came to the end and found himself in front of a single door. He knocked on it, and then entered anyway without waiting for a response. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have a job to do!"

* * *

_You have a brother?_ John tipped his head to the side, his tail thumping on the ground a little bit from the news.

Sherlock purred in amusement and turned onto his back. They had returned to the rocky area in the woods after they'd managed to move away from each other for long enough and decided to simply relax. It was the only place they could feel at ease, away from the prying eyes of everyone else – aside from the cameras, that was. However, it was comfortable enough, and they were perfectly happy to act how they wished in the woods. As far as the people behind the cameras knew, they were simply chatting as normal, while being a tad more affectionate.

Sherlock's humour seemed to die away, however, and he glanced over at John with a small frown. _Yes. And speaking of my brother…_

John tilted his head the other way as Sherlock sat up. The leopard curled his tail around his paws and stared at John, trapping him in his gaze. _I do not expect that things are going to be very stable for much longer. The adults have begun to test different things about us – that's why I was out today. No, don't interrupt, I'm fine._ Sherlock growled, then ducked his head to butt it against John's chest in an attempt to make him shut up when the wolf went to speak. He didn't continue until he was certain that John wouldn't say anything.

_I didn't allow them to do any of the more… intense experiments. I heard them talking when I was leaving, they weren't too pleased with that. I think they were looking forward to those ones in particular._ He decided not to elaborate; it would only make John anxious, and Sherlock couldn't afford to distract him with that now.

_ So what?_ John nudged the side of Sherlock's muzzle with his own to get him to lift it again.

_ I fear that they will take extreme measures to get the results they need, but I have an idea. One moment. I want to try something._ Sherlock closed his eyes and the golden fur over his forehead creased as he frowned. His claws scraped against the rock beneath his paws while he concentrated.

An image suddenly appeared in John's mind. Instead of words and stray thoughts, which was usually how students communicated as animals, this was a clear picture that must have come from Sherlock. It was a map of the adult side of the Resort, and each room was labelled.

After that faded came a second one, this time of a person, and it had a name attached, one that was firm and certain. _Mycroft._ The young man could only be Sherlock's older brother; they had the same slightly disdainful look about them, and that clever glint in their eyes.

When that one disappeared, John blinked to find Sherlock watching him closely. John shook his muzzle, a low whine slipping between his teeth. _What was that?_

Sherlock gave him a withering look and elected not to say the scathing retort that crossed his mind. _If anything happens to me, John, I need you to contact Mycroft somehow. If you must, find a friendly member of staff and get them to email him. I have no doubt that they'll be able to find him. _

The fur along John's spine ruffled at his words. _'If anything happens to me'?_ he repeated. _Sherlock…_

The leopard touched his nose to John's. _I don't plan on getting into too much trouble, but I need to make sure that there is a way of getting a message to the world outside of the Resort. Perhaps, if I can, we might be able to leave. I needed you to know what to do if I am unable to do it anymore._

As much as John appreciated the gesture for what it was, the thought behind it made him uneasy. As excited as he was about the idea of leaving the Resort, he wasn't all that certain that he wanted to risk Sherlock. He moved from his place opposite the leopard to the bit of rock beside him, settling comfortably so he could lean against him. Sherlock snorted quietly but didn't push John away, for which the wolf was grateful.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: I told you my schedule was back in place now! As always, thank you for your wonderful comments, and as a gift I give you 'Chapter 9'.**

* * *

The dorm room was silent but for the soft breaths of the sleeping students. It was dark, warm and comfortable; perfectly peaceful.

The only one awake was Sherlock.

Before everyone had fallen asleep, when Sherlock and John had just gone into the room, Sherlock had joined John in his bed without discussing it. John clearly didn't mind, as he just settled into the offered embrace. It wasn't long before he fell asleep, and soon the others drifted off one by one. Sherlock was quite content to bury his nose in John's hair, breathe in his scent, and grow accustomed to the idea of cradling someone else in his arms while they slept.

There was a quiet thump as someone fell out of bed, and then a soft whine of pain. Disentangling himself from John, Sherlock got to his feet. As someone who rarely slept, he had taken it upon himself to let anyone out who transformed in the night.

This time, it was Greg.

As he stood, shaking out his fur, Greg turned an amused look on the boy by the door. Luckily for him, the transformation was quick. He bared his teeth, and his tongue lolled out to form a grin. Sherlock suspected he knew what Greg was thinking, and the German shepherd confirmed it by glancing over in John's direction, still with that cheeky look on his muzzle.

_Took you long enough._

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered. He swung the door open, glowering at Greg as he trotted out, huffing with laughter. Greg's tail wagged as he padded out of sight.

Despite that, Sherlock couldn't help a smile from forming on his mouth as he returned to John, and it only strengthened when he burrowed back into Sherlock's hold.

Eventually, when dawn was nearing, Sherlock fell asleep.

* * *

When John woke, the first thing he noticed was that Sherlock was curled tightly around him. His arms and his legs were wrapped around John, and when the wolf cracked open one eye all he could see was Sherlock's neck, as he his head was tucked under his chin. At some point in the night John had returned Sherlock's embrace by draping an arm over his side.

Rustling sounds told John that some other boys were awake and moving about the room. He raised his head drowsily, opening the other eye to get a good look at who was there.

Greg wasn't around. A few of the other boys nodded in greeting, some raised their eyebrows at the tangle of limbs that was John and Sherlock, and the rest merely gave them passing, curious glances before leaving. A handful were still out cold, despite the lights being on.

Sherlock was one of those still sleeping.

John took the opportunity to study his features while he was resting. Even while asleep, Sherlock's expression didn't slacken; he was frowning ever so slightly, as if his mind was presenting him with puzzles instead of dreams. His breathing was deep and even, and when John pressed his ear to Sherlock's chest he could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat.

Sherlock was determined that he didn't have a heart, but John knew far better. He could imagine the withering look Sherlock would give him, as well as his response.

_'You know full well I didn't mean my physical heart, John.'_

_ Idiot,_ he thought fondly.

After a moment's deliberation, he kissed Sherlock's cheek and attempted to move away, but Sherlock's grip was like that of a boa constrictor's; tight and unyielding. John struggled, and accidentally woke Sherlock in the process.

Growling quietly, Sherlock opened one eye slightly, the sliver of grey-blue fixing on John's face. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm getting up," John replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Stay here if you want, but I intend to actually get out of bed today."

Sherlock sighed, and his eyelid slid closed again. "Anything interesting happening?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then I'll stay here." John noticed a mischievous smile curling across Sherlock's face, and began to be wary. He didn't have any time to act on his suspicions, though, because Sherlock promptly rolled over to trap John with his own body. "Could I persuade you to join me?"

Blood rushed into John's cheeks, and he pushed Sherlock off, ignoring the disgruntled noise that came from his friend. As much as he now looked forward to these displays of affection, he wasn't willing to go through with them with other people in the room. "No, Sherlock," he said firmly. "I'm going to go and be social. Steal my bed if you want. If you need me, I'll be out with everyone else."

Sherlock turned onto his back with a dramatic sigh. "Fine," he grumbled. He pressed his hands together as if in prayer beneath his chin. "I need to arrange my thoughts anyway. It'll be easier in a quiet room."

"Right." John paused, then leaned over to peck Sherlock again. Sherlock wasn't quite content to leave it at just that, but he did eventually let John go, albeit reluctantly.

When John made his way into the main room, he discovered that most of the students were indoors. Perhaps the weather was poor, forcing everyone to stay inside? He soon spotted Greg waving him over, and went to join him on the circle of chairs that John's small group of friends had claimed as their own. Molly wasn't with them today; she was chatting away with some girls that John sort of knew but rarely exchanged more than a passing greeting with.

As John took his seat, he noticed the wide grin on his friend's face. He shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "What?"

"So, you and Sherlock, eh?" Greg asked, with what could only be described as a grin.

"What about us?"

"Oh, come on, mate. The whole dorm saw you two cuddling last night. You can't deny that there's nothing going on now."

Funnily enough, John didn't want to. He just shrugged it off with a smile of his own. "Who said I was going to?"

Greg barked a laugh. "Figures it'd be you to break through his walls. Nobody's ever even been able to call him a friend before you came along, and now look at you two. You're the only person to get that close."

"Really?" John could easily believe that, but it was still surprising to hear it.

"Can you think of anyone else that's this close to him?"

John almost said 'Irene', but she and Sherlock hardly ever spent any real time in each other's company that he was aware of. Yes, they had conversations that were perhaps just that little bit… _more_ than what he shared with most people, but John wouldn't say that she was Sherlock's friend. When it came to Molly, Sherlock was only polite because John asked him to be.

And as for Jim… There was definitely no friendship there. Only resigned rivalry for Sherlock, and eager playfulness for Jim.

John had no idea what Sherlock felt for his brother.

* * *

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Mycroft was the only way he was going to get himself and John out of the Resort – at least, without initiating a battle with the adults that they would surely lose.

The dorm was empty now, except for him, and he'd kept his place in John's bed. He could pick up John's scent, which soothed him and actually helped his brain to settle into the act of searching through his Mind Palace. The poor place was huge but almost empty, holding only what he'd learned in his time at the Resort, thoughts of John and the few memories he'd managed to recover of Mycroft.

Sherlock was determined to rescue more thoughts to do with his brother.

He knew his own personality and also Mycroft's, and he was certain that his brother would never have allowed him to set foot in the Resort without agreeing on a safe word. If he ever wanted to leave, all he would have to do would be to send him the word somehow and he would collect him.

At least, that was how it worked in theory. Sherlock had no idea if he'd had time to settle on a word.

And so it was he found himself walking through the echoing halls of his Mind Palace, searching for the memories he'd been forced to forget, in the hope that they had simply been locked away in one of the rooms further back.

Sherlock didn't usually pray, but he did now. He hoped that he would find what he was looking for, that he had been smart enough to make plans in case something should go wrong.

He prayed that he would be able to free John.

* * *

**Sherlock – Five years old**

"_Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! Zoom!" I run around the garden, repeating 'Buzz!' again and again, chasing after a bumblebee that I found in the garden. Mummy said I shouldn't chase them because they might sting me, but I don't think they will. They haven't before. _

_ I can almost catch up with the bee now! I duck under a tree branch in the garden – Daddy said he was going to get that sorted, but he hasn't; Mummy needs to remind him. I wish My would play with me. Maybe I could be a bee, and he could chase me instead! _

_ "Buzz!" I say again, turning on the spot to run back to the house. And then, shouting now, "My!"_

_ Soon, my brother and I are both running around the garden, chasing bees and pretending to ignore Mummy's calls to come back inside for dinner._

* * *

**Sherlock – Ten years old**

"_MYCROFT!"_

_ My and I don't play now, but we do argue more. He's busy with schoolwork, - and so am I, for that matter - but I have more spare time than him. I devote my hours of leisure to reading and, when I find something interesting, studying it until I know as much as I possibly can fit into my head. Sometimes I even do a few experiments, much to Mummy's chagrin._

_ It's a day like this:_

_ I set up an experiment to do with the behaviour of bees earlier on – I still haven't stopped liking them, even five years on – which required me to capture some of them while they flew around the garden. My has let them go. I don't know why, but I do know that he's annoying, selfish, and needs to be called up on it._

_ He pokes his head around my bedroom door. "Yes, Sherlock?"_

_ "Where are my bees?"_

_ My blinks. "I don't know. They were there a moment ago, weren't they?"_

_ "Yes, they were," I fume. "I suppose you felt the need to interfere, didn't you?"_

_ "Don't be ridiculous," he tsks. "You know I wouldn't touch one of your… 'experiments'." There's a distinct tone in his voice that I don't like, but with the seven year gap between us I can hardly call him out on it, can I? I'm only ten. Instead, I just make a frustrated sound and shut the door in his face. If he won't be serious, he can stay away._

_ It turned out that it was actually Mummy that let them go. I apologised to My later. He said it was fine._

* * *

**Sherlock – Sixteen years old**

_I'm ready. I don't need to pack; clothes will be provided for me. I won't need any of the few sentimental items I keep in my room, because I won't remember what they mean. Sadly, I'll also have to sacrifice the knowledge my brain holds, but I have no doubt that I'll be able to recover it over time._

_ There's a knock on my bedroom door. I slowly sit up from where I was reclining on my bed and say, "Come in."_

_ It's Mycroft._

_ He shuts the door softly behind him and crosses the room to sit beside me. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, and I don't break the silence either. I don't intend to ask him why he's here, because I already know._

_ "You're not going to change your mind, are you, Sherlock?"_

_ "No." My response is simple, sharp, firm. No, I will not be moved on this. No, I will not give up on it. No, I will not be persuaded to simply observe the experiment._

_ I want to take part, see how it reacts to _me_._

_ Mycroft sighs. In a gesture that is familiar and yet odd in this situation, he fixes his gaze on mine. This time, there is no anger, or rivalry, or amusement in his eyes – just a resigned look._

_That is what makes me realise that he is truly worrying for me._

_ "Then at least promise me this," he says softly. "If you ever get into trouble… If you find that you do not wish to be a test subject anymore… You will contact me somehow."_

_ "Mycroft, I doubt that I will be able to access-"_

_ "You're Sherlock," he interrupts, a wry smile on his face. "You've broken into many locked doors and found plenty of files that are none of your business over the years; I have no doubt that you'll find it simple to slip past a few scientists to reach a computer."_

_ I chuckle. It is, of course, true. I've stolen Mycroft's work just to be annoying on more than one occasion. Even though I don't need it at all, it's amusing to see how he reacts, especially when I become more imaginative with the ways I capture it. It's a sort of game between us._

_ "I'll indulge you," I decide. "What should I say to you if I need you to collect me?"_

_ Mycroft considered it for a moment, and I was surprised to see his smile turn to one of sadness. "Say 'bees'."_

* * *

Sherlock was jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of an announcement coming through the speakers. He couldn't help a triumphant grin, even as he listened to the message that sent concern coiling into his stomach.

_"All students are to gather in the woods in their animal forms."_

Sherlock threw the covers back, casting them off like the childhood memories he'd sorted through to reach this point, and darted from the dorm, leaving his shoes behind.

He had to find John. He needed to tell him the word. There was no way Sherlock would be able to hide from the adults and sneak past them now, but if he could tell John just what the word was, he would be able to rest easily if he ended up back in the lab. John would be able to contact Mycroft and get them out of the Resort, even if it meant leaving Sherlock behind.

He would be satisfied if John was safe.

Sherlock didn't notice Jim's presence as he bolted through the deserted common room, and so he didn't see the smile playing on the corners of the panther's lips.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: I don't think there will be very many chapters left in this fic, to be honest. Just to let you know. We'll have to see how things go. Now, I'll admit, this is probably my favourite chapter so far; it was so easy to write, it just flowed.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The woods were full of the sounds of confused animals. Almost every student was present, and their voices were raised as they attempted to catch the attention of friends, leaving various barks, yowls and chirps to mix into a babble of noise. The ground was a rolling sea of pelts as students weaved around each other, and overhead the few that had bird forms flitted through the air, calling in their trilling voices. Scents clashed, leaving them all unable to pick one out from the others.

This was the first impression of the woods John had, and it was one of chaos.

The wolf's lips pulled back slightly, baring the tips of his teeth, and he lashed his tail. _What the hell is going on?_ Of course, nobody heard him over their own questions, so he gave up on that plan of action quickly.

He searched for a familiar golden coat, but he couldn't see it anywhere.

John was shoved by another student, probably by accident, and he found himself being pulled into the crowd. Since he was there, he decided he might as well try to find a friendly face.

While he was careful where he placed his paws, it was still difficult to see just where he was going. More than once John caught his foot on a root and almost tripped, and at one point he even came close to stepping on Molly, and it was only because of her shrill squeak that he noticed the rabbit.

_Oh, God, I'm so sorry!_

_ It's fine, John, really. _Molly twitched her nose and hopped closer. John stood still to let the her shelter between his paws, where she would be safe from any other clumsy creatures. Taking in a deep lungful of the air, John tried again to find Sherlock's scent, but all that met his nostrils was a jumble of smells that didn't make sense. Maybe if the students settled down, he'd be able to sort through them easier.

_Do you know where anyone else is?_ he asked.

_I wish I did. I was following Greg, but I lost him._ John saw a pink nose peer out from between his legs as Molly glanced around. _Where's Sherlock?_

_ Last I saw, back in the dorm. I haven't seen him since this morning. _

They didn't have any more time to discuss the matter; a horn blared at them, causing those with more sensitive ears to flinch, but it had the desired effect: everyone fell silent. Molly pressed her side against John's foreleg, and John dipped his head to touch his nose to her ear in response. It was a silent promise that they would stay together through whatever this was.

Now that there was less movement, John could pick out a sharp tang of a smell that had been hidden from him before: humans, and beneath that was a metallic iron scent.

He wrinkled his nose and gritted his teeth. John hadn't seen many adults since he'd left the hospital – only for his lessons, and they didn't come up very often – but he recalled all too easily the fact that they had given Sherlock various tests, and it made him recoil from the scent.

_John?_ Molly asked tentatively.

_Nothing._

As the last few whispers of sound died away, a voice crackled through sets of speakers that had been placed in the trees overnight.

_"Students, it has come to my attention that some of you are forgetting your places."_

John's stomach dropped. The fur along his spine began to stand on end without his permission, and his ears flicked forward. That could only mean one thing.

_"We will not tolerate disobedience."_

They'd been found out. It was all over. Despite Sherlock's efforts to get them out, to remember what he needed to so they could escape, it was all over.

_"The students in question must be separated."_

_ What did they do?_ a student on the other side of the clearing cried, but of course the humans couldn't understand. The others speculated quietly, but John remained silent.

It was him and Sherlock. It was their discovery of the cameras, he was sure. Nobody else had shown any signs of doing anything out of the ordinary.

The horn went off again, louder than before, and a couple of students with canine forms had to duck their head so their paws could reach their ears. Greg was among them. John wasn't.

_"You are gathered here so it is known that we will not allow actions of this nature to be repeated. You may not interfere with the removal of one of the two students. Doing so will result in your own punishment."_

This time, not a single animal uttered a sound.

When the voice spoke again, the words it said made John's heart stutter in his chest. It was clearly an order to someone else, and while it was intended for the students to hear, they were not meant to do anything about it.

_"Capture the leopard or the wolf. The leopard and the wolf are your targets."_

John expected there to be an explosion of action afterwards, but it didn't happen like that. Rows of humans came through the trees from the building, blocking any escape. They were carrying some sort of gun, but what type John wasn't entirely sure.

He prayed that they were just tranquilisers.

He was going to fight. He needed to find Sherlock, and they had to discover some way of getting out of this.

Rustling alerted him to movement, and his ears twitched back to catch the sounds. When that didn't answer his silent question, he glanced around. He gasped.

John wasn't prepared to find himself surrounded on all sides by the other students. A growl rippled through their ranks, low and threatening. They were guided by the need to protect one of their own, to keep their pack safe. Even little Molly the rabbit had stepped forward, ready to defend him. John felt a rush of warmth go through him for his peers.

A cold nose touched his flank. He glanced back and met Greg's gaze. _Find Sherlock, and get out of here,_ he said, and then wormed his way past John to take his place at the front._ We'll keep them busy. Go!_

With a cry that was echoed by the others, Greg charged, the rest of the students at his heels. And as much as he longed to join in, to see how it felt to fight in this body, John turned tail and ran.

* * *

Sherlock changed in the corridor. He was too impatient, and his human skin felt too small, too restraining in his current mood. So he threw it off, shrugged on his lean leopard body instead, and sprinted towards the woods.

He knew he was too late the instant he heard the battle cries.

Sherlock pushed himself faster, straining his muscles. The door was already open, thank God, swinging in the breeze that had picked up and was cutting through the woods. Ahead, Sherlock could see the backs of humans as they either fought back against the animals or tried to escape, only to be pinned to the ground or chased away. Sherlock let out a low hiss. He padded along the wall of the building, his fur bristling. Where was John? He couldn't see or smell him anywhere.

With a low snarl, Sherlock pushed off from the ground with his hind legs and began running.

He went around the edge of the woods, keeping as close to the fence as he dared, while sucking in great gasps of air in the hope that he would catch John's scent. He could hear the sharp cracks and pops as the humans fired their guns and, oddly, guilt settled in Sherlock's stomach. The announcement had been played throughout the building, so even on his way there he'd heard it; this was entirely his fault.

He doubted that anyone would be permanently harmed. After all, they _were_ all experiments, and the humans couldn't afford to lose them.

That didn't mean they would be against hurting them, though.

Sherlock was nearing the back of the woods by now, and there was a familiar scent in the air – but it wasn't John. A pelt that matched his slid out onto the path in front of him, fur bristling.

_Sherlock,_ Irene sighed, relieved. Her shoulders drooped a little bit, and her tail, which had been skimming across the leaves, stilled. But then she took a threatening step forward, a growl building in her throat. _What are you doing here? You should be escaping while you can._

Sherlock glanced behind her, releasing another low hiss of irritation. _I can't leave without John. I need to find him._

Irene was silent for a moment. After a pause, she padded forwards to push Sherlock's shoulder with her own, attempting to turn him back towards the building; he bared his teeth and stayed put. Irene narrowed her eyes. _The best way you can help him is to get through the security while their forces are concentrated here! Goodness me, Sherlock, I'd heard that love is blinding, but this is ridiculous. What you need to do is send out a message while they're distracted. That's the most effective way of helping him!_

Sherlock hesitated. He would prefer to at least make sure John wasn't hurt before he did anything else, but Irene did have a point. Before he could reply, however, there was a shout from nearby and the sound of a gun being fired. Both cats leaped to the sides. A dart buried itself in the ground where Sherlock's paw had been moments before.

_Run!_ Irene yowled. _I'll find John. Go!_

Sherlock glanced in the direction of the swiftly approaching humans and decided he could risk calling a reply to the cheetah. _If you find him, tell him 'bees'! He'll know what it means! _

And then Sherlock was galloping away. He considered climbing into the trees, but quickly dismissed that idea; while he'd have the advantage of being above his hunters, he could easily find himself stuck at a dead end. He would be safer on the ground.

Behind him, he heard the adults deliberate about who to chase, and then their decision to split both way. Idiots. Couldn't they tell a leopard from a cheetah? Apparently not, but it didn't stop them from chasing after Sherlock.

It was only when he was nearing the building – safety was just a few hundred yards away, and then he'd be able to contact Mycroft – when another cat joined him in his run. Sherlock could see dark fur out of the corners of his eyes, and he growled quietly: Jim.

_Just a bit of friendly advice for you,_ he purred. Sherlock could feel Jim's amusement crackling on the ends of his whiskers.

_What?_ Sherlock spat. Just a few more strides, and he'd be able to slam the door in the faces of the humans.

_Your darling little wolf is in trouble. _

Sherlock almost stopped in his tracks, but he forced himself on. He stayed silent, gritting his teeth.

_He's just the other side of the woods. You should be able to hear-_

A pained howl filled the air.

_Ah, and there it is._ Jim slowed to a jog, rolling his shoulders in a shrug and making an 'oh, dear!' expression on his muzzle. _You might want to hurry, Sherlock. I don't think anyone else will be able to get to him._

Shoving down the snarl that was fighting its way up his throat, Sherlock found a reserve of energy and almost threw himself through the trees, determined to reach John. He was nearby, if he helped they could both get through security, they'd have better chances of succeeding-

But it was clear upon reaching the wolf that he wouldn't be able to get very far.

A student Sherlock couldn't remember the name of at the moment had John pinned to the ground. In any other situation, John would have been able to wrestle the other boy off, but a wolf was no match for a tiger. With one great orange paw pressed into the wolf's chest, the cat had his jaws firmly locked around John's shoulder. Blood was already staining the fur around the wound.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to barrel into the tiger's side and throw him off, but he'd only pull John with him and make the injury worse. Instead, he bolted over and swiped at the other cat's flank, scraping his skin with his claws. The tiger flinched, but didn't release his hold.

At the sight of golden fur flashing past him, John renewed his struggles; he kicked at the tiger's belly with his hind legs, battering his underside while he wriggled. His shoulder was burning in agony, but the only sound he made was a quiet growl. Relieved to see John fighting, Sherlock slapped his paws against the tiger's lower back and sank his teeth into his tail.

The tiger released John – who dropped onto the ground, letting out a low whine as he hit it with a thump – and swung around to reach Sherlock. However, the tiger wasn't as aggressive as Sherlock had thought he would be; he just herded him, dodging Sherlock's strong batters and John's slightly softer kicks. Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion, and it clicked just a second too late.

He wasn't being attacked.

He was being distracted.

John's injury was a trap.

_Damn it!_

There was the sting of a dart in his flank, and the rush of some chemical hitting his bloodstream. Sherlock growled and planted his paws firmly on the ground, determined to stay upright and awake. _John,_ he gasped, and was irritated to find that the world was already slurred.

_Sherlock!_ John dragged himself to his paws and, wincing, limped over to the leopard. The tiger had disappeared into the trees, for which they were both grateful; John pressed his muzzle into Sherlock's neck, whining.

Sherlock swayed on his feet. His mind was swimming. But there was something important he had to say, something he needed to tell John before he succumbed to the darkness prowling on the corners of his mind. _John,_ he repeated, more urgently than before.

_What?_ John's weak leg trembled, and he raised his paw off of the ground.

_'Bees',_ Sherlock told him. He sat heavily and closed his eyes, heaving a sigh of exhaustion. _'Bees'. It was 'bees'._

_Sherlock, what- Sherlock! Sherlock!_

But Sherlock couldn't hear him. He'd crumbled under the weight of the drugs, and was sinking into the peaceful blackness.

* * *

John woke to an unfamiliar bed and an aching shoulder. His first breath in gave him the sterile, clean smell of the hospital, and three gentler scents: Greg, Molly and Irene. He didn't open his eyes yet, but let himself float for a while, carefully sorting through what he remembered.

The forest. The fight. Running, trying to find Sherlock-

Oh, God. _Sherlock._

John inhaled sharply and groaned as a spike of pain flashed through his torso. God, his shoulder felt like hell, but it wasn't going to stop him. The three that were by his bedside stopped murmuring instantly, and a warm hand settled on his. "John?" Molly asked hesitantly.

John cracked his eyes open, wincing as bright light hit them. "I'm fine," he mumbled. Determined, he pushed himself up, ignoring the steady burn in his injured limb; if he was able to do that, some time must have passed to let it heal somewhat. How long had it been since he'd last seen Sherlock? He blinked rapidly in an attempt to force his eyes to adjust, and then turned to his friends. "Sherlock. Where is he?"

The three of them exchanged glances. Molly pulled her hand back and folded it with the other in her lap, pressing her lips together. Oddly for Irene, there was something akin to pity in her eyes. Greg grimaced. "John, mate, you're not gonna like this."

A mixture of panic and anger flared in John's chest. "Greg…"

"They've got him," Greg interrupted. He shook his head, seeming at a loss. "I'm sorry. We couldn't get to you, they held us back."

John felt like he'd been winded. God, they had him. They'd already taken him against his will, so who was to say they wouldn't bring out the worse tests, the ones Sherlock had refused?

He threw back the hospital bed sheets and stood. They'd put green, flimsy scrubs on him, which was good enough. At least he wasn't naked. Greg and Molly made sounds of protest, but Irene met his gaze and, sure enough, her eyes were twinkling with mischief.

"John, you need to sit down, you're injured!" Molly squeaked. "You're going to hurt yourself! You need to rest."

"No." John's voice was firm. "I'm fine, I'll be fine. But you know who won't be? Sherlock. And unless we help him, he's going to be stuck in there, on his own, having all sorts of chemicals pumped into him. That fight was just the first one."

None of them replied for a long moment. Irene stood in one smooth movement, a smile playing on the corners of her lips. "You'll need all the help you can get, John."

Greg and Molly both got up too, determination and nerves on their faces, respectively. "We're in," Greg agreed. Molly nodded and gave John a tentative smile. John beamed at them. "So," Greg continued, "what's the plan?"

"We meet with the others," John decided. "We'll sort something out then." He turned to the camera that blinked at them from the corner of the room, crossing his arms – ignoring the painful pull of muscle – and glared. John had no doubt that the adults were watching them. He hoped that they were quaking in their boots. There was no way in hell he was going to let them get away with taking Sherlock.

"And once we have... we fight."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Not much to say on this chapter, other than it was also easy to write. I've had these past two chapters written in my head for a long time. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The element of surprise was out, but in the end that didn't matter. John had no doubt that Jim had seen his challenge and would be only too eager to accept. All that remained was to meet him in battle.

It didn't take much to convince the rest of the students to help them – 'them' being John, Greg, Molly and Irene. All of the students felt wronged and betrayed by the adults they'd trusted, so they were perfectly happy to assist in the rescue, especially when there was a chance that they might escape as well. And when it meant depriving the adults of something they wanted, it only encouraged them and riled the students up further.

The plan was all set. All that was left was to execute it.

* * *

It was the middle of the night. The common room was dark, the only light coming from the crack under the door that led onto the corridor. John and his friends were curled up on the chairs, waiting for the right moment to spring. A couple of others were hidden with them, but John couldn't remember their names.

Molly and Irene were already in their animal forms – the innocent-seeming rabbit was perched on the edge of her seat, while the slender cheetah took up a whole sofa. Greg and John waited with bated breath for the signal, but it was the girls who heard it first.

Irene flicked an ear and growled softly. _Now._

An alarm went off from the woods.

Students never fought seriously; play-fights were common, but claws were kept sheathed so no one was harmed. However, they had needed a distraction, and with the promise of freedom the others had willingly agreed. While some pretended to sleep peacefully in their beds, another group staged a real, vicious fight out in the woods. Blood would probably be spilled for the second time in a few days, but it was for a good cause, in this case.

There was the clatter of footsteps outside, and the stripes of shadows as feet rushed past the door. All six students sprang to their feet once they'd passed. John darted over and opened the door, while Greg bent down to sweep Molly into his arms so she wouldn't be left behind. A quick glance into the corridor confirmed that it was empty, so they padded out into the open and, when they weren't discovered, they followed it.

Within a minute they were at the dead end with the locked door.

This was the one obstacle John had been most worried about, but it appeared that he hadn't needed to waste any nerves over it at all. The third boy – who was taller than both John and Greg, maybe even Sherlock – reached up and lifted one of the panels in the ceiling. When John stared in surprise, he simply flashed him a quick grin and said, "Found out they weren't fixed in my first week."

He then gestured to Molly. "Put her up in there. It's safe, I've looked around plenty of times. All she needs to do on the other side is push another one up and drop down. Might be a wait while she finds a key and something to wear, though."

Molly flattened her ears against her back in what John supposed was meant to be an embarrassed gesture. Greg gave her ruffled fur a quick flattening, and raised her over his head. Her claws scrabbled for purchase on the edge, but soon her fluffy white tail disappeared; all they heard was soft scratches overhead. The boy let the tile fall back into place.

The wait was far too long for John's liking. He shifted from foot to foot, worrying over both Sherlock _and_ Molly now.

Oh, and the fact that nobody was stopping them. That wasn't promising. It just made John certain that Jim _did_ have a hand in this. If the adults had been able to have it their way, John was sure that they would have turned them around and sent them back to the student area by now. He could easily imagine the boy's reptilian smile as he watched them dance.

In reality, it was only a little over ten minutes until Molly opened the door, human and wrapped in a lab coat to cover herself up. She stepped back to let them through, glancing around nervously.

"Offices are that way," she said, gesturing to the left side of the new area. It was another long corridor, but horizontal to the one they'd just left. "The… the labs are at the other end," Molly added, shooting a look at John.

Before John could even open his mouth, Greg cut him off with a stern look. "Remember the plan," he told him firmly. "You and Irene go and do what you need to do to get us all out of here. We'll look for Sherlock. You guys join us when you're done so we can defend our position. Alright?"

After a long pause, John nodded stiffly.

Greg's expression softened, and he clapped John on the shoulder. "Don't worry, mate. We'll look after him. At the end of the day, you're the only one who knows how to get us out." He gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and then let his hand drop. "Good luck, everyone." Greg took a deep breath, nodded and turned on his heel. "Lead the way, Molly."

Once they'd disappeared around a corner, Irene butted her head against John's side. She flicked her tail and padded in the direction Molly had indicated. John followed obediently.

If they encountered any trouble, Irene would be the one doing the fighting. John might be able to move with ease again, but his shoulder was by no means healed; every jolt sent a bolt of pain through it. He was in no condition to leap into battle. He was the head of the operation – the freedom of everyone depended on him.

No pressure, then.

Thanks to Sherlock's pre-planning, John knew exactly where the head's office was. It was the very last room at the end of the corridor, made out of beautiful dark wood with a shining gold plaque bearing the name 'Mr. Moriarty'.

It would be stupid to knock, so John just tried the door handle. It was unlocked, swinging open with a soft _shush _of wood on carpet.

Someone was seated at the desk. John's heart dropped – for a split second, he thought they'd been discovered by an adult, but it wasn't as bad as that. No, it was worse.

It was Jim.

The image John's imagination had supplied him with played before his eyes; Jim stood, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets, his lips pulling back in a wild smile. Where before there had been idle curiosity, there was only shadows and dark humour now. He wore a baggy shirt and loose jeans, his hair was ruffled and there were faint circles around his eyes, giving him the appearance of someone who'd just woken up. It didn't make him any less intimidating or excited, however.

John shivered but held his ground. The fur along Irene's spine prickled.

"John!" he said in a surprised but pleased voice. "I was wondering when you'd turn up." He paused, as if waiting for John to speak, but when he stayed silent Jim continued. "I thought you'd be along a bit earlier, to be honest. So did Sherlock."

John felt Irene place her paw on his foot in warning. _Don't rise to the bait._

John swallowed and spoke in what he hoped was a pleasant tone. "I couldn't. My shoulder…"

"Ah, yes." Jim sucked in air through his teeth and gave a low whistle. "Sorry about that. Big cats are just such temperamental creatures, aren't they? You can never tell when they'll just… _switch_." The last word was said in a higher pitch, and Jim tipped his head to the side at the same time.

It was another obvious taunt. John felt the pressure of Irene's claws through his shoes.

Jim didn't leave John any room to reply this time; he simply carried on, slowly making his way around the desk. "For all you know, Sherlock could have. He might think you'd betrayed him. He might think you were weak. He might think you weren't even _worthy_ of his affections when he realised you weren't coming-"

"_Stop it,_" John snarled. His bones ached; it had been several days since he'd transformed – he hadn't been able to for fear of reopening his wound – and he wanted nothing more than to leap at the boy in front of him. Irene's claws were almost breaking through his shoes now, she was pressing down so hard.

Jim's mouth popped open in a little 'o'. "Did I hit a nerve?"

John curled and uncurled his hands in an effort to relieve some of his anger. It helped a bit, but not much.

Sensing that this conversation was only going to go downhill, Irene padded in front of John and shoved him away with her shoulder. He stumbled backwards a couple of steps before he caught his balance again.

Jim tutted, seeming disappointed. "Oh, Irene. I didn't think you'd help them, dear."

She blinked.

"Did you get Sebastian's invitation?"

She nodded.

"And you refused."

Irene snorted. That was a very clear _Obviously._

While Jim's attention was diverted, John edged towards the computer. If this was Mr. Moriarty's office, surely he'd have the names of important contacts on it? He knew he wouldn't be able to search it properly with Jim in the room – the other boy was far too observant for that – so he just prayed that Irene would keep him occupied while he sorted out their escape.

Jim sighed heavily, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. "It really is a shame. Won't you consider it?"

Irene pulled her lips back and growled softly.

"I'll take that as a no," he replied, sounding amused.

Thankfully, the computer didn't require a password; it had been left open. Had Jim been going through the files before? Only one way to find out.

_Click. _

John tapped the spacebar to remove the black screen. A blank background popped up, along with several icons that led to various bits and pieces. It was basic but neatly organised.

Open at the bottom was Mr. Moriarty's email.

John's heart thundered in his chest. He glanced over at Irene and Jim, and found the boy staring at him with a frozen expression. It wasn't just cold – it was _glacial._ But John refused to let his glare pin him in place; he purposefully looked away again and pulled up the email tab.

"What do you think you are doing?" It was spoken as a demand, not a question.

John said nothing.

"I _said_," Jim hissed, dragging out the 's' sound, "_what are you doing?_"

Silence.

Out of the corners of his eyes, John saw Jim bristle and move to stalk over. Irene yowled – that was the warning, the sound that meant _'Just do it, I'll take care of this!'_ – and threw herself at Jim. He staggered back under the weight of the cheetah, but then twisted. John heard the sound of clothes tearing, and then there was a deeper growl sounding throughout the room.

The two cats stepped apart and faced off, tails swinging back and forth, their muzzles low to the ground. With a twitch of her muscles, Irene feigned left and threw a bat to the right, but Jim was already trying to use the opening as a way to squirm past her and leap on John. Irene's speed worked in her favour; she drove him back again. She didn't dare to take her eyes off of Jim, but she flicked her tail impatiently at the lack of keyboard-clicking and growled harshly.

John shook himself. He had work to do.

While the irritated snaps and snarls provided him with background noise, John scrolled through Mr. Moriarty's contacts. He knew Sherlock's brother's name, but not his surname, which was a bother. But really, how many people would be called Mycroft? He typed the name into the search box and hit enter.

He had an answer almost instantly.

_Holmes, Mycroft._

John couldn't remember ever using email, or a computer for that matter, but it all seemed simple enough. He clicked on Mycroft's name and then on 'create message'. He wrote one word in it – '_bees'_ – and hit send.

And like that, it was gone. The alert call had been sent out.

Help was on the way.

He looked up with a grin. Jim was simply stood in front of Irene, a low rumble coming from his chest. It could have been mistaken for a purr if he hadn't been baring his teeth. Irene, on the other hand, appeared unruffled. Every move Jim made, she darted in front of him and forced him back.

"Done," John announced.

Jim lashed his tail and hissed.

John began to make his way back around the desk, but there was a quiet _ping_ from the computer. He glanced at the screen. His heart missed a beat.

Mycroft had replied. It was almost as short as John's email, but it made his shoulders sag with relief.

_'Thirty minutes. MH'_

John closed the email and, after a moment's thought, he turned it off as well. He disconnected a random wire from the back of it in the hope that it would render it useless. He wadded the lead up in his hand and slowly made his way back around the desk. Irene turned with him, judging where he was by the sound of his footsteps. She backed towards the door when they reached it, which John held open for her.

Jim clearly had no intention of stopping them. If he had, he would have leaped on them now that Irene was in a less easily defended position. He sat, curled his tail around his paws and fixed disturbingly calm brown eyes on them.

John could still see the gaze when he locked the office door behind them.

* * *

Voices, soft and meant to be soothing. Scents that were too sharp in his nose. Bright lights overhead, with people casting shadows over him as they crouched by his side. A metallic, coppery taste in his mouth; probably dried blood from where he'd bitten his tongue to keep his various sounds of pain locked inside.

And the aching. Oh, the aching. Sherlock's muscles felt heavy, strained. He _hurt_. He'd never hurt more in his life.

Someone had covered him up – his constant transformations had left his clothes little more than shreds of fabric. The cold of the tiled floor and the warmth of the sheet contrasted horribly against his raw skin.

There was the harsh sound of a door squeaking open, and Sherlock flinched, huddling beneath his makeshift blanket. Brief silence, and then a question was asked in a quieter voice, one that soothed Sherlock somewhat. He was so exhausted he barely needed any prompting to relax.

Sherlock might have been human at the time, but his senses were still painfully sharp. The new smell that greeted him as someone knelt by his head was a little gentler, but it was still enough to make him wince and turn his head away. Sherlock closed his eyes. He'd be able to think clearer when the lights weren't stunning him.

A hand brushed softly through his hair. Despite the prickling path it left against his skin, he leaned into the touch. He knew it was safe to do so; the scent was familiar – John, it had to be John, unless the scientists had found some way to replicate him – and the stroking was the kindest touch he'd received in… Sherlock didn't even know how long he'd been there, he'd lost track of time in the whirlwind of changing and pain.

The voices faded. They must have moved to the opposite side of the room; Sherlock remembered that it was quite a large one. It was just John, providing the comfort he'd craved.

Sherlock didn't know how much time passed, but he was content to let his frazzled nerves cool. Each second that ticked by brought a little more relief. Sherlock didn't speak, and John didn't prompt him to.

Someone else entered.

One step. Another step. The click of metal on tile.

A long silence.

"Oh, brother dear. What _have_ you gotten yourself into this time?"


	12. Interlude

**Author's note: This chapter is short, and that was done on purpose. Never fear, chapters will be back at their proper lengths starting with the next one :)**

* * *

The Resort was silent for the first time in years. There were no hushed voices, no soft whirs of machinery, no far off cries of animals in the woods. The only sound was the click of Mycroft's shoes and the tap of his umbrella on the tiles.

Twenty-three students in total had been rounded up and taken to various safer places; the majority had ended up in a large house out in the country that Mycroft had prepared for such an event, but two had been placed in a flat Mycroft had selected. Those two were, of course, his brother and the boy that had refused to be parted from him. Mycroft had considered removing him, but when he'd spotted Sherlock's hand curled into the boy's shirt in a tight grip, he knew with certainty that he would be a comfort to his brother.

The two remaining students – one Jim Moriarty and his partner-in-crime – had vanished completely. Mycroft suspected that the latter of the two had freed him from Mr. Moriarty's office, and together they had escaped. As long as they didn't cause him any trouble, Mycroft had no qualms in letting them go. Moriarty Senior seemed able to hide just as easily as his son, unfortunately.

Mycroft would never admit it aloud, but he would have enjoyed the chance to give him a taste of his own medicine – pun intended.

The office the man had spent so much of the past few years seated in was as Mycroft expected: organised, with a hint of disarray because of the big cats that had clearly stalked around the room. Strands of golden or black fur were littered here and there on the carpet, and there were even a few scratches across the floor where one of them had become a bit too excited in their little dance. Mycroft's expression remained impassive as he crossed to the desk.

The computer was how Sherlock's friend – John, Mycroft remembered – had left it; Mycroft's email sat open, his short reply staring at him from the screen. Leaning his umbrella against the smooth wood of the desk, Mycroft helped himself to the chair. With the ease of practice at using computers, he closed Mr. Moriarty's email and opened his documents instead, finding them easily amongst the folders.

Really, it was far too easy to access the files on each of the students. Mr. Moriarty should have thought twice about storing that information on something so simple as a _computer. _

A few simple clicks, and Mycroft had three different files displayed: Sherlock's, John's and Jim Moriarty's.

He would save his brother's until last. He had no doubt that it would be the most interesting out of the three. However, his curiosity over John was far too high now to be ignored; just why had he found the two of them curled around each other when he'd appeared? He had his suspicions, and he doubted he'd get his answers until Sherlock had recovered properly back at their new home, but taking a peek into John's file wouldn't hurt.

**NAME: **watson, john  
**AGE: **16  
**SEX: **male  
**ANIMAL: **wolf; brown fur, average size  
**NOTES: **Late addition. There was a remaining space, it was only logical that it should be filled. He appears to be very loyal, very trusting, or at least willing to offer the chance of friendship. He's very close to Holmes. Perhaps his stability is good for Holmes?

Ah, that would be why, then. Mycroft closed that document; that was all he wished to know about John Watson, and he could easily dive into the details further when they were both fit to speak to him.

Instead, Mycroft opened Jim Moriarty's file. It was very short, and to the point.

**NAME:** moriarty, jim  
**AGE: **16  
**SEX: **male  
**ANIMAL: **panther; pitch black fur  
**NOTES: **Jim has made his decision. I cannot stop him any longer; he has joined the students, and seems determined to make his mark.

Nose wrinkling with disgust at the lack of information, Mycroft impatiently switched to Sherlock's. He would, of course, copy each of the files onto a USB and delete what was on this computer later. The details were valuable, even if the means that had been used to gather them left something to be desired. He could not afford to let what had been collected go to waste – Sherlock would certainly give him a scathing comment if he let such a wonderful experiment slip through his fingers.

A sort of sad smile pulled on Mycroft's lips at the thought of his brother. Contrary to popular belief, Mycroft did care for Sherlock, and he had missed him in his time away, even if he was usually ill-tempered.

Perhaps the young Watson had tamed him somewhat. Mycroft would only know when he returned.

**NAME:** holmes, sherlock  
**AGE: **16  
**SEX:** male  
**ANIMAL: **leopard; lean body, not to be confused with cheetah (adler, irene)  
**NOTES:** He is an interesting case. He chose to join this, with full knowledge of what would happen if he did. None of it put him off; the amnesia, the process of transformation, the entire experiment… it seemed to excite him. It's a shame he wanted to take part on the other end, we could have used him as a scientist. He certainly seemed to know what he was talking about when we explained it.  
His intelligence could prove to be an issue in the long run, but hopefully it won't have to come to that.  
_Edit:_ I was wrong. It seems that he is rediscovering his memories, and it's prompting Watson to do the same, apparently. They are both becoming aware of what we are doing, at least. This cannot be allowed to continue. We must take action. We have completed a few simple tests, such as reaction time, and have noticed that the results are all slightly above that of the average human's.  
The new tests we have performed on him have yielded interesting results. Apparently, the pain threshold is higher-

Mycroft cut himself off there with a simple click of the mouse. Pride was curling through him as well as concern. "Oh, brother…" he sighed.

Of course, Sherlock's confidence in his own intelligence was his downfall, in the end. It had been John's utter determination that had saved them both, as well as their fellow 'students'.

Once the download onto the USB Mycroft had had in his pocket was complete, he rose from the chair, collected his umbrella and made his way slowly through the maze of corridors. The Resort – no, that name was not appropriate, it was hardly a place of safety as it claimed to be – _the Test Facility _would no longer be functional. It would be demolished as soon as Mycroft was certain that there was no little piece of information hiding from his searching gaze.

But, for now, he had a brother to return to, one that was recovering from God-only-knew what horrors. When he had left him, he'd been curled on his side in the back of one of Mycroft's cars, Watson protectively by his side.

Mycroft could certainly see how Watson fitted his animal form.

Sighing sharply through his nostrils with amusement, Mycroft eventually found the exit. Outside, one single car remained, waiting for him. He slid into the back and settled in. He closed the door with a snap.

"Where to, sir?" his driver asked, leaning over the front seat to see his employer.

Each of the students had been taken to a place that was deemed comfortable for them during their recovery. It had not yet been decided whether it would be safe to release them back into the public, but their families had certainly been notified of their freedom. Sherlock and John were currently at a small flat Mycroft had picked out, one that he had no doubt Sherlock would find to his taste. Of course, it was provided with only the best security - both for the two boys and for the civilians that lived nearby. Neither of them would be able to leave without arrangement beforehand, but Mycroft didn't think that would be a problem in this case; both of them had clearly been exhausted, and had been longing for the comfort of a soft bed and each other's warmth.

"221B Baker Street, London."


	13. Chapter 12

**Author's note: I'd appreciate it if you guys took a look at my profile for my update schedule, guys. Thanks!**

**I challenge you to spot the _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_ quote in this chapter.**

* * *

The first thing Sherlock noticed upon waking was that he was warm and comfortable. However, he didn't trust his senses; the staff had tricked him before, they could easily do it again. The scents around him were different, new, but that didn't mean they were safe.

He stayed firmly put in a tight ball, refusing to move. It wasn't until he heard a soft 'hm' of laughter from a familiar voice that he realised he had to be safe; how else could Mycroft be there?

Sherlock slowly uncurled and rolled onto his back. He was on a large bed - he hadn't fallen off the side. A lighter scent puffed into the air when he threw an arm out to the other side: John. That was when he opened his eyes, wishing to see his… boyfriend again.

He wasn't there.

But, as expected, Mycroft was seated in a chair at his bedside, hands folded in his lap. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother and made no comment, choosing to inspect the room instead. It was nice, Sherlock had to admit; he was on a comfortable double bed, the décor was unobtrusive, and was that a framed Periodic Table on the wall?

It was very... _Holmes._

"What do you think?"

Sherlock swivelled his head back around to face Mycroft again. His brother was watching him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer. Sherlock sniffed and pushed himself up onto his elbows, casting another cursory glance around the room. His heart skipped a beat when he spotted his violin case on the desk; he'd be able to play some music for John, perhaps even compose a piece for him.

"It's not bad, I suppose."

Mycroft laughed, and Sherlock saw some of the tension drain out of his frame. He'd been worried then, but why? Sherlock was perfectly fine, aside from a few bruises and aches. He paused, watching with a slight frown as his brother returned to his usual aloof state, before asking, "Mycroft, what happened at the Resort?"

Mycroft's faint amusement faded, replaced by something more serious. He leaned forwards in his chair slightly, levelling a concerned look at Sherlock. "Don't you remember?" When the younger Holmes shook his head, Mycroft sighed. His gaze flitted away, fixing on the door.

"Your wishes to stay out of the worse experiments were ignored - surely you recall that? Your John and a handful of others took it upon themselves to rescue you and alert me to what was happening. It's a good thing they did; you were in a bad way when I arrived."

"How bad?"

"If anyone but John attempted to touch you, you appeared to be in intense pain. You seemed to find his presence soothing." Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a silent question – _Should I expect anything more? _– but Sherlock elected to ignored it.

He sat up properly, leaning against the pillows behind him. "Where is John?" The steady burn of worry prickled his skin, making him feel as if his fur was standing on end, even though he was human for now.

"Before I tell you, you must promise to stay exactly where you are," Mycroft said sternly. "You're awake, which is all very well and good, but you won't recover fully for another few days."

Mycroft went to continue, but Sherlock interrupted him quickly. "'_Another_ _few day_s'? How long have I been out?"

His brother made the face that meant he was exasperated with Sherlock. He couldn't help taking some pleasure out of that; it had been a long time since he'd seen that expression. "Three days. Now will you allow me to speak? Do you wish to know where John is or not?"

Sherlock remained silent this time.

Mycroft nodded once in approval. "John is currently in the living room, awaiting permission to return to your side. He wanted to be here when you woke, but I had to persuade him to eat and shower. He kept a constant vigil while you were unconscious."

He stood, straightening his suit jacket as he glanced down at his brother. "I must have a word with him before I leave. Don't leave the bed, Sherlock; he will be back soon with the rules for living here."

Sherlock clicked his tongue and averted his gaze, folding his arms. "_Rules_… trust you to make _rules._"

Mycroft chuckled lightly. "Even you must know that they are necessary in this case."

When Sherlock didn't reply, Mycroft swept up his umbrella - another detail that clicked back into place in Sherlock's mind - and made for the door. "I will visit again in a few days to check up on you both. Until then, you will be in the hands of your new landlady. I'm sure she'll introduce herself once you've both had ample time to…" Mycroft paused, searching for an adequate word, "…_reacquaint_ yourselves."

Sherlock snorted, one corner of his lips tilting up. Instead of confirming or denying that something along those lines would happen, he merely said, "Goodbye, Mycroft."

Suppressing a smile of his own, Mycroft closed the bedroom door behind him.

* * *

John waited impatiently in his new living room, tapping his foot on the floor. He'd already had a good look around the flat – it was comfortable, secure and pretty much everything he'd ever wanted in a home. He could hear muffled voices from the bedroom. He could easily detect Sherlock's; he was awake, then. John itched to join them but he stayed put, as Mycroft had asked.

After being kicked out of the bedroom, John had reluctantly followed Mycroft's instructions. He'd inspected the fridge and found a few meals already there, waiting to be reheated, so he'd put one in the microwave he'd come across. After filling his stomach – which, admittedly, had been growling at him for a good few hours – he'd tried out the shower. It was far better than the ones he'd had at the Resort; the hot water drained the aches from his muscles, easing the aches out of his injured shoulder and leaving him marginally more relaxed.

After he'd dressed again, he'd wandered out into the living room. A fire was already dancing away in the fireplace, giving the room a warm glow. There was a television and a couple of laptops – which John had still yet to touch – but now that he was out of the Resort he found that everything was starting to come back to him. He could easily recall memories of Harriet and his parents, his old school and the friends he'd had.

But, if he was honest, he couldn't really imagine going back to them now. At least, not while he was still capable of turning into a wolf.

Harriet would probably find it hilarious, though.

Abruptly, John realised that the speech had faded and a door was closing. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Mycroft approaching, a pleasant smile on his face. John stood, unable to help casting a glance at the now-closed door, and Mycroft chuckled.

"I'm afraid there are a few things I need to discuss with you before you can rejoin my brother, John. I'll try not to take up too much of your time." He raised a hand, gesturing to the armchair John had just vacated. "Please sit."

After a pause, John returned to his seat. Mycroft took the armchair opposite, which would later become Sherlock's. For a moment they were both silent, John waiting and watching Mycroft with one raised eyebrow, while the older Holmes clasped his hands beneath his chin and levelled an analytical stare in return. Mycroft was the first to speak.

"You may not think that I am a very emotional man, John, but I cannot express how grateful I am for your part in saving Sherlock." He didn't pause for John to reply, even when he opened his mouth; he merely waved a dismissive hand and continued. "While the planning was down to him, you executed it when he was unable. Your dedication to him is why you are both here, and not with the rest of your fellow… 'students'."

There was clear disdain in Mycroft's tone for the term, but John didn't comment on it. "I couldn't leave him," he said simply.

Something flickered in Mycroft's expression, but it was stowed away before John could get a read on it. "I appreciate it," he replied. "There are a few more matters I wish to go over before I leave, and I don't have much time so we must hurry on.

"I currently have a team of researchers working on a cure for you all," Mycroft explained. "I can't imagine that any of you would wish to spend the rest of your lives suppressing your animal selves; even now, it must be uncomfortable for you after just a few days." Once again, Mycroft interrupted the start of John's protests. "Please, John, I've read the information that has been collected on your kind."

It struck John then how different he really was now. He was speaking to a human – a real, full human – while he could only claim to be half of one. He could transform in a split second, all fur and fangs and claws, while Mycroft would only be able to sit there and observe this change. And, grudgingly, John had to admit that he was right; he could feel a hollow ache in his bones that urged him to take on his wolf form.

A part of him was grateful that he and Sherlock had that need in common. At least they didn't have to go through with it alone.

"This leads me onto my next point." Mycroft reached into his jacket and produced an envelope. John took it when it was offered to him, but he didn't open it yet. "That is for you and Sherlock to read. It contains the rules of you living here, and what to do in certain situations."

"Thanks." John folded it in half and pocketed it for now. He was curious, but he would wait. He had no doubt that it would come in useful, but he also had a feeling that Sherlock would treat it the same way a child would regard vegetables.

"There's just one more thing," Mycroft added as he was getting up. He inspected his umbrella as he spoke, his eyebrows raised in thought. "Jim Moriarty and his accomplice, Sebastian Moran, managed to escape." Mycroft's nose wrinkled delicately; John imagined that he must be slightly disgusted with himself for allowing the two of them to slip through his fingers.

John allowed this information to sink in before he flatly asked, "And?"

Mycroft glanced up, his eyes narrowed. "I do not believe he is done taunting Sherlock. If you happen to suspect that he is anywhere near here or interfering in any way, do not hesitate to contact me through the method inside the envelope."

John nodded and stood. Mycroft held out his hand, which he shook with the politest smile he could muster, but really he just wanted to go back to Sherlock. The knowledge that he was awake and probably bored out of his tree was nipping at the edges of his thoughts; he could almost imagine his wolf pacing back and forth, ears flattened and fur ruffled.

Thankfully, Mycroft seemed to realise this, because he made for the door in a way that was hasty but still appeared to be almost lazy. Just as John was disappearing down the hallway that led to the bedroom, he heard Mycroft call his name again. He tried not to let his shoulders sag and attempted to contain his irritated sigh, but Mycroft's chuckle told him that he was unsuccessful.

"John?"

He turned.

"Thank you for being there for my brother."

Mycroft left without a goodbye.

* * *

Sherlock was about ready to go out and demand that Mycroft stop monopolising John when the boy himself entered. Ignoring his brother's advice, Sherlock threw the covers back and rushed to his feet to engulf John in a hug. John laughed quietly in his ear, his arms winding around his lean frame in return.

"Hi," John greeted.

A small smile curved across Sherlock's lips. "Hello."

He disengaged himself after a few minutes, but didn't release his hold on John completely. He kept his hands fixed on his shoulders as his gaze moved almost hungrily over his face. John was clearly troubled by something – his back was straight, the line of his shoulders slightly stiff – but he didn't ask for now. Instead, he loosened his grip so he could brush the tips of his fingers over John's injured shoulder carefully. "How is it?"

John shrugged. "It's fine, as long as I don't strain it."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "And Mycroft? I do hope he didn't attempt to give you 'the talk'."

He'd been hoping that a stab at humour would help John to relax, and he was spot on, as usual. John chuckled as the tension drained out of his frame. "No, he didn't, thank God. That would've been humiliating for both of us."

"I beg to differ," Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft would have enjoyed every second, the insufferable git."

"I think he approved of me, actually," John said lightly. He didn't go into detail though – Sherlock suspected it was just to annoy him – and instead nudged Sherlock back towards the bed. "You need to rest. You've been through a lot-"

"So have you."

"-and you need to recover," he finished. Sighing heavily, Sherlock allowed John to manhandle him back into sitting down, but he caught his sleeve when John tried to move back. "What?"

The stare Sherlock gave him clearly said 'you're an idiot'. "Lie down with me."

"Why?" John sounded faintly amused.

"Because," Sherlock explained, tugging on John's wrist until he was seated beside him, "I'm going to get incredibly bored if I have to stay here on my own." He settled back against the headboard, looking smug when John followed him. While he tucked himself into John's side, he added, "And if I really must sleep, I'd rather use you as a pillow."

Sherlock felt John drop a kiss on top of his head; a warm feeling bloomed in his chest and he returned the motion, only his lips pecked John's neck.

"You're warm," he added.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John said firmly – it was a 'stop talking, Sherlock' if he'd ever heard one.

For John, he'd let it slide.

And, despite having slept more in the past week than he usually did, Sherlock allowed himself to drift off again, comfortable in the cradle of John's arms. The deep breathing against his ear let him know that John had fallen asleep, too. That soothing thought let him sink fully into unconsciousness, and this time it was from choice rather than protection.


	14. Chapter 13

**Author's note: Apologies for the long gap in chapters. This fic is now my priority, and I'm going to finish this before I tackle any others, so it has my full attention. There should be an increase (hopefully!) in the speed that I update _Cause For Paws._**

* * *

_- Do try not to break anything if you must transform._

_- In reference to the last point, I would prefer it if you scheduled your transformations so the two of you could be taken somewhere more comfortable for the duration of them. This way we can keep you out of the eyes of the public, and you can also feel free to stretch your legs._

_- Food will be delivered to you by your landlady, Mrs. Hudson. However, this is no reason to treat her unkindly; I expect the both of you to respect her. There is no reason to be concerned about the rent, as I have that sorted._

_- Leaving the flat without supervision is out of the question._

"This is ridiculous!" Sherlock spat, flicking the paper away. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and proceeded to sulk.

John simply rolled his eyes.

Sherlock's patience had finally run out, and after another day of resting in bed he'd gotten up, determined to explore their new home. John had found suitable clothes for the both of them in the shared wardrobe – smart suits for Sherlock and comfortable jumpers for himself. Sherlock had refused John's offer of assistance, easily making it into the kitchen under his own steam.

From there, John had shown him around, and they'd also met Mrs. Hudson when she'd come up to poke her head in, as she often did, with a light knock at the door and a cheerful greeting of 'Woo-hoo!' John had had several pleasant conversations with her while Sherlock had been sleeping at the beginning, and she seemed like a nice enough woman. She had a certain quiet strength about her that made the wolf in John's mind silently submit. Then again, she would have to have something special in her if Mycroft had trusted her with two escaped experiments, wouldn't she?

Once the tour was complete, Sherlock and John had returned to the living room to find an envelope waiting for them. John had insisted on making cups of tea before they tackled it; Sherlock had merely grunted in response and flung himself into his armchair.

John had been nudging him to eat and drink a little more than he was used to, using the excuse of 'keeping his strength up'. Sherlock couldn't deny the logic of this, but it didn't mean he would like it.

Now they sat across from each other, Sherlock pointedly ignoring the list that had been encased in the envelope, while John continued reading through it. He cast a glance over at Sherlock, but he childishly refused to look away from the crackle of flames in the fireplace.

"Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock made a 'hmm?' sound.

John rolled his eyes, then waved the papers through the air in front of his nose. "Your brother has a point, you know. These _are_ important rules. It'd be stupid to ignore them-"

"They're boring."

"-when we're safer here," John finished firmly. He hated arguing with Sherlock, and it was made worse by the fact that they could both be stubborn when they wanted to be. Inside his mind, the wolf dug its claws in, and John could imagine its fur bristling.

"Safe is dull." Sherlock clicked his tongue, finally sliding his gaze over to him.

"Anything's going to be dull after the past few months," John agreed, "but that's no reason to ignore some perfectly good rules. We don't even have to go out to change if we don't want to, it doesn't say that anywhere. We could just do it here."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but nodded. "I don't see where else we could go. Perhaps we should put out some sheets first if we choose to stay here; there'll be hair everywhere."

A thought occurred to John then, and he repeated it aloud. "Does Mrs. Hudson know about all of the experiment stuff?"

"Oh, she's more than aware. Mycroft thought it would be prudent to let her know just what she was in for. I agree with him on this occasion." Sherlock paused, his eyes drifting again as a frown creased his brow, before his gaze snapped back to John's face. "Would you like to hear some music?"

Well, that was a swift change of topic. Deciding to leave the papers for now, John tucked them back into the envelope and placed them on the nearest table. "Yeah, alright. What did you have in mind?"

An excited smile spread across Sherlock's features. "Won't be a moment," he promised as he leaped to his feet and darted back to the bedroom. True to his words, he reappeared seconds later, a beautifully crafted violin and bow held in his hands. They seemed very at home there.

John raised an eyebrow. "You never said you played the violin."

"Surprise."

John chuckled, eyes glimmering with amusement, and Sherlock felt something warm settle pleasantly in his chest. He liked making John laugh; it would have to happen more often.

The thought of having forgotten how to play passed through Sherlock's mind, but was quickly discarded. He hadn't deleted the information – he'd taken care to keep it stored away in his Mind Palace, certain from the moment he'd set foot in the Resort that he would emerge again.

He had, of course, been right.

"I hope you don't mind if I play one of my own pieces," Sherlock said. He strode across the room, dumping the instrument on his armchair as he went by, to look through some boxes by the bookshelf. Crumpled sheets of paper, pencils and even little twisted bits of metal (what those were originally intended for, John had no idea) were scattered behind Sherlock as he searched. John gathered them and set them aside in a small pile.

Sherlock eventually sat back on his heels with a triumphant cry, a single piece of paper held tightly in his grip. He scrambled to his feet eagerly, flattening the creased sheet.

John excused himself to make another cup of tea while Sherlock set up. Tea was one of the things he'd forgotten completely about until there was a steaming cup in front of him. It was quickly becoming one of his favourite drinks again. Once his cup was refilled and Sherlock was fiddling with the tuning pegs of his violin, he returned to his seat to wait.

Not long after, Sherlock lifted his head with a small smile. John couldn't help but wonder if he'd aimed it at himself – he probably had, knowing Sherlock, congratulating himself for a job well done. He swept up the bow, lightly placing it to the strings as he glanced at the music sheet that was laid out over the back of his chair.

And then he began to play.

The music was… well, if John was honest, it wasn't the best he'd heard. Most of it sounded spot on to him – it was beautifully played, almost like Sherlock was coaxing the instrument to sing for him. But at other points, the time he'd spent away from it was evident: occasionally Sherlock's fingers would slip and a frown would flicker across his face, but he would pick it up again just as quickly.

A memory tugged on John's brain, distracting him for a moment. It was of his little sister, Harriet, when she'd insisted on learning to play the guitar. Actually, her focus had been on the violin, like Sherlock, but their parents had refused, wary of the damage a child could do when handed that particular weapon. She'd reluctantly agreed to the guitar, a far less painful instrument to listen to, but she hadn't been very good at it anyway. Harriet had given it up within a month; she was impatient, and when there had been little progress, she'd decided it wasn't worth it. He recalled many times when she'd wailed over broken strings, but it was only for attention. A fond smile tugged on John's lips.

That was when he realised that he missed her.

It hit John like a swooping sensation in his stomach. He'd been gone from his family for at least a few months, and he had no idea if they'd been told what had happened to him or not. As far as he knew, they simply thought that their son had left them. He couldn't even recall how he'd ended up at the Resort, or where he'd been before it. Those memories still eluded him.

Had Mycroft told them that he was safe, happy, and relatively comfortable?

It was only when Sherlock was kneeling in front of him that he noticed the absence of the soothing music. The violin and bow were resting on Sherlock's seat while the boy himself had folded his arms over John's knees and propped his chin up on them. He raised an eyebrow questioningly. "John?"

Only after releasing a slow breath did he reply, "Yeah?"

There was faint amusement in Sherlock's features. "You've been sat there for a good few minutes now. I finished the piece ages ago." He brushed his fingertips over his leg lightly. "What are you thinking of?"

John covered the hand with his own. Sherlock turned his over to grip John's and give it a gentle, prompting squeeze. "Your violin reminded me of my sister's phase of trying to play the guitar."

Sherlock cocked his head, looking curious. "Do you miss her?"

"Of course I do." John raised his eyebrows, surprised. "She's my sister."

"That's like saying I missed Mycroft because he's my brother," Sherlock pointed out, rolling his eyes. "I was only pleased to see him because he helped us escape. He and I don't get on usually."

John hadn't seen much evidence of that so far – in fact, he'd only really seen Mycroft's caring (albeit slightly frosty) side while he'd been sitting by Sherlock's bed. The man seemed nice enough.

Then again, perhaps two Holmes brothers in one building wasn't a good idea.

"Why don't you like Mycroft, then?" When Sherlock was silent, John poked his shoulder. "Come on, there's got to be a reason."

"Simple differences," Sherlock sniffed. He released John's hand, stood up and straightened his jacket. "We just don't get on. It's not a new concept for members of my family, don't worry about it."

"There has to be something behind it," John insisted.

Sherlock simply flicked his hand dismissively and returned to his violin. He perched in his seat again, resting the instrument underneath his chin, and plucked idly at the strings. The soft notes floated through the flat, creating sweet background music that contrasted with the topic that was apparently sensitive to Sherlock.

John sighed. Defeated for now, he gave in and got up to put his empty cup in the sink. He went about making himself something to eat from the food Mrs. Hudson had supplied them with, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

These moments happened a lot between them now, these silent times when neither of them spoke. They didn't need to; the silence wasn't awkward at all. It was comfortable, easy, and gave them time to appreciate each other's presence fully. John supposed that now Sherlock might sometimes play his violin, so there might be something other than the gentle clacking of the dishes on the counters.

It was soothing. The thought that he and Sherlock didn't always need to speak to be happy around each other was something John treasured. Perhaps, given time, their relationship would progress further and, if they were lucky, they'd even stick with it.

John sincerely hoped so.

* * *

"Jim Moriarty."

It was some time later that Sherlock spoke. The two boys had long had dinner and the sun had set. Lamps now lit 221B with a warm glow instead of the sunlight that had streamed into the windows before, and the dying embers of the fire glowed in the grate. Sherlock had only moved from his seat to change into more comfortable clothes, while John had eaten – and persuaded Sherlock to, which was a feat he was proud of – and switched to pyjamas. He now sat on the sofa, flicking through the television channels, when Sherlock said the name that made his stomach turn.

"What about him?"

Sherlock's lip curled. "Mycroft has told me _nothing_ about him."

In a sudden movement, Sherlock flew to his feet. His violin landed on his armchair, bouncing beside his bow before settling against the cushions. The boy himself paced back and forth, dressing gown swishing around his ankles.

"A clever move, brother… Clever, indeed," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "You thought I would forget about him, I assume? Ridiculous, not when…" He trailed off, blue eyes flicking to John's shoulder before returning to glare at the opposite wall.

"Sherlock," John said, hoping to grab his attention. Sherlock grunted to acknowledge him. "What do you mean, 'a clever move'?"

Sherlock suddenly halted, turning on his heel to face the sofa at last. John's nostrils flared, catching Sherlock's scent: anger, frustration, and a little bit of fear.

"Mycroft knows full well what Moriarty is capable of," Sherlock hissed, "and how much he wants to come head-to-head with me. He's keeping me isolated in the hope that I will sit back like a good little boy and do nothing." He barked a laugh, directing his cool stare at the ceiling. "You're wrong, brother!"

"What-"

"Oh, please. You really don't think he'd have placed cameras in here 'for our own safety'?" he asked scornfully. "Even in our home, John, we are watched. We are still experiments, ones capable of doing serious damage if we are so inclined."

John took this information in as Sherlock brought himself back under control. Only once his boyfriend had returned to his composed state did he quietly say, "You think Mycroft isn't telling us anything because he expects you to go after Moriarty."

"That's exactly what I think," Sherlock confirmed. He carefully moved his violin aside so he could sit, pressing his hands together beneath his chin. "Brace yourself, John. I doubt Mycroft will sit by now that I've worked out his plan. Depending on where he is, he should arrive before you insist that we go to sleep."


	15. Chapter 14

**Author's note: Right, okay. I know exactly what's happening from here on out. Hold on tight, guys, here we go...**

* * *

There was a sharp rap at the door, signalling Mycroft's arrival. Sherlock and John had dressed again, and only because John didn't want to sit around in his pyjamas while Sherlock's brother was there. The other boy had reluctantly agreed and gone to fetch some clean clothes.

"Come in," Sherlock called. He'd returned to his seat and stayed there, lost in thought. John had left him alone and set about tidying the flat a little; in the few days they'd spent there, it had become messy, mostly due to Sherlock's general lack of organisation. Admittedly, it made it feel like home, but John would rather have some semblance of order, especially with a guest.

Mycroft let himself in. He glanced at his brother when the door shut behind him, and was John just imagining it, or was there the faint hint of nerves in his expression? It seemed to be gone as quickly as it had appeared though, as the older Holmes offered Sherlock a charming smile.

"I thought you'd work it out sooner," Mycroft said, raising his chin slightly. It was a jab aimed at Sherlock, but he didn't rise to it.

"I was otherwise occupied with that '_healing'_ nonsense everyone was interested in." Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, making his feelings clear on the subject.

Mycroft's face smoothed out. While Sherlock was no doubt being negative, it was apparently typical for him when it came to his brother. Casting a glance around the room, Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the clearly hasty attempts at cleaning.

"You must care about guests a great deal if you've tried to tidy up, John," he commented. "I'm flattered."

"Politeness," John replied simply.

The hair on the back of his neck rose uncomfortably, a prickling sensation tingling across his skin. A quick flick of his gaze over to Sherlock confirmed the source of his anxiety; the boy was tense, leaning slightly towards his brother, and there was undisguised anger written over his features. John took the best course of action he could think of.

"I'll put the kettle on."

Amusement passed over Mycroft's face, and Sherlock simply grunted in acknowledgement.

With that excuse in place, John escaped into the kitchen before the tension radiating from Sherlock made him slip into his wolf skin.

There was complete and utter silence in the living room, and John didn't even need to glance through to know what he would see: Mycroft would still be standing, appearing impassive now, and Sherlock would be seated while he glared daggers at his brother. John admitted that the feeling he was getting from Sherlock made him nervous; neither of them had transformed in a long while, and if the situation proved to place too much pressure on them, who knew how they'd react?

He had the horrible feeling it would end up in disaster.

The frosty silence between the two brothers was still present when John returned with the cups of tea, only Mycroft had taken John's chair now. Sherlock's stare had hardened, turned distant. He barely noticed the mug held out in front of him, and when he took it, he immediately put it to the side. Mycroft gave his thanks and sipped his politely.

John stood by Sherlock's chair awkwardly, simply cradling his cup without drinking it.

Sherlock seemed deceptively calm now. It appeared that he'd reined himself in, but John knew him better than that; he could see a storm in his grey eyes. It didn't clear when he finally deigned to speak.

"Let's not beat around the bush, Mycroft: why did you keep the information from me?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and delicately placed his teacup on the table, next to Sherlock's. Steam still curled from the surface of the liquid, but if Sherlock left it much longer, it would be lukewarm at best, and unpleasant to drink at worst. But, judging by the lack of attention he'd shown it so far, John doubted that he'd even take a single sip.

"I was trying to protect you," Mycroft eventually said. He folded his hands in his lap, weaving his fingers together. "I knew that you would never let it go if I told you anything, so I left it alone in the hope that your mind would naturally keep you from recalling anything associated with… _painful _memories."

Something flickered across Sherlock's features, but it was gone before John could identify it.

"I am perfectly capable of keeping a cool head and a sharp tongue," Sherlock snapped. "I am mature, reasonable, _fine._ I don't need you looking after me like I'm a troublesome child, Mycroft."

His older brother remained silent. His head tilted towards Sherlock, and he lifted his eyebrows. The look on his face clearly disagreed with Sherlock's statement.

Sherlock's lip curled in response.

To John, it was like they were having two conversations: one aloud, and the other through body language and expressions that he didn't understand. No, that was wrong. It felt like they were speaking fluently in another tongue, one that he only vaguely knew.

He wondered if Sherlock was doing it on purpose. His boyfriend told him mostly everything, but he'd made it clear he wanted John safe, and if ignorance kept him out of harm's way…

"What you need to remember, Sherlock, is that Moriarty is… an unhinged young man," Mycroft said. "He saw that you were equal in levels of intelligence, and while that was an entertaining thought to him, he now seeks to destroy you. I cannot allow that to happen-"

"I've escaped him before," Sherlock interrupted sharply.

Mycroft's eyes drifted over to John. "Only because a certain 'friend' was there to assist you."

John held Mycroft's gaze determinedly, and after a brief pause the older brother looked away again. There was a tiny smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You know, John, my brother used to be under the assumption that being alone protected him. I don't think he believes that now."

Sherlock snorted. "That isn't even relevant to the conversation," he cut in scathingly, leaving John no room for a reply. "John has nothing to do with Moriarty."

"And that is where your affection is blinding you." Mycroft leaned forwards, folding his hands beneath his chin in a gesture reminiscent of his brother. "John has _everything_ to do with Moriarty."

Sherlock glanced across at John, a frown flickering across his features. A second later, realisation dawned, and he snapped his attention back to Mycroft. "It doesn't matter," he hissed.

John was, in a word, lost.

"What's he got to do with me?" he demanded. He was going to be let back into the conversation, damn it! He'd always hated having people speak about him while he was within earshot, even more so when he was stood _right there_. It sent an unpleasant creeping sensation down his spine.

"Leave it, John," Sherlock said, at the same time Mycroft explained, "You are Sherlock's weakness."

Silence followed.

Sherlock's glare had turned positively _glacial._ Mycroft was watching John intently, as if waiting for his reaction.

Now that he knew just what was happening, John put his teacup down and straightened his shoulders. His chin jutted a bit in that stubborn attitude that showed itself when these situations occurred. "I can look after myself," he said firmly.

Triumph replaced Sherlock's ice.

The hint of a smile that had been on Mycroft's lips smoothly pulled them into a smile. "Says the boy who was very nearly incapacitated during a fight with the enemy's soldier."

John's shoulder gave a twinge of remembered pain. He rolled it absentmindedly; Mycroft's catlike smile widened.

"I carried on fighting anyway," he pointed out. "I didn't stay there and wait to bleed out."

"And I admire your determination. Without it, I doubt we would all be sat here now. It's unlikely Sherlock would even be-"

"_Enough_," Sherlock snarled.

The grin melted away, only to be replaced with a raised eyebrow. "You haven't told him the extent of what the scientists did to you."

John heard the click of Sherlock's teeth as he gritted them.

"I'm surprised, Sherlock."

Sherlock's fingers curled into the arms of his chair. The hair on the back of John's neck stood on end again as he caught a whiff of something distinctly _animal._

Mycroft didn't appear to notice, or if he did, he didn't care, because he just continued prodding Sherlock. "I thought you didn't care for being alone any more. John deserves to know, he _should_ know. He can hardly help you if he doesn't understand-"

"Mycroft."

This time the warning came from John. His skin was prickling uneasily as his wolf responded to Sherlock's agitation. His boyfriend was clearly at the end of his tether; the days trapped inside, the length of time since he'd transformed, and now the trouble with Moriarty. It was all building up, making him tense – making it easier for the animal contained in him to claw its way out.

Mycroft instantly stopped speaking when John said his name, which surprised him. He'd expected more of a fight, but perhaps the elder Holmes trusted his judgement when it came to Sherlock.

When his brother's voice was no longer ringing in his ears, Sherlock took a shuddering breath and seemed to deflate in his seat. He pressed himself back into the cushions and closed his eyes. He looked pale and ill.

Carefully, slowly, John perched on the arm of his chair and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The boy shivered and tilted into John's side, burying his face in the cotton of his jumper. John pulled Sherlock into his arms; one hand found itself in his curly hair, gently stroking his scalp in soothing circles of his fingertips.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Perhaps it would be prudent to arrange a trip out for the two of you," he said. "Sherlock?"

The boy in question gave a grunt to acknowledge him.

"Are you alright?"

No reply.

"John?"

He cast a wary glance down at Sherlock's head, but he didn't move to show he'd heard this time. "I think it's all just a bit… much. A run about would probably do us both some good."

Mycroft nodded. "I agree. I'll have a car sent for you this evening; you'll be taken to where your friends are currently. I imagine some familiar faces might put you both at ease. We'll continue this discussion when you're both feeling less…" He flicked a hand towards the two of them, as if to indicate that they should fill in the blank. "I'll let myself out. Speak to you soon, Sherlock."

The only response this time was a brief, jerky nod into John's side.

They remained in the same position long after Mycroft had left. Sherlock seemed reluctant to leave the safe circle of John's arms, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. John eventually dropped his hand back to Sherlock's shoulders so he could press his face into his hair instead, enabling him to breathe in his now definitely human scent. It settled John back down as much as the cuddling helped Sherlock.

Only when his back was beginning to ache did John ask, "You alright now?"

Sherlock pulled back just a little bit. His hair was ruffled from John's hand, and there were marks on his cheeks from where he'd hidden in John's jumper. There was a carefully guarded look in his eyes.

"I apologise," Sherlock muttered, glancing away. "That was unacceptable of me."

"Hey." John caught his chin with his fingers and guided Sherlock's face back around to him, but he still stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. "It wasn't your fault. A lot's happened lately."

The crease of a frown appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows; his cool blue eyes fixed on John's nose. "I should be able to control myself better," he protested. "I don't-"

"No." John's voice was firm. "You don't have to suffer in silence. You know I'm here for you."

Sherlock hummed to indicate that he'd heard. He rested his forehead against John's shoulder again, but this time it was more of a relaxed hold than a burning need for comfort. They lapsed into silence once more. John could hear the gentle patter of the first drops of rain on the windows of the flat.

A faint mumble came from his side, but the words were lost. "Sorry?" John said.

Sherlock's face reappeared from the comfortable crook of John's neck. "I said, they tested a cure on me." At John's confused expression, he rolled his eyes and elaborated, albeit with a degree of discomfort. "The scientists. That's what Mycroft meant. They were developing a cure, and they tested it on me."

John's heart leapt. So it was possible for him to become fully human again? "Did it work?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No. It forced me between forms more times than I care to remember." There was a stiffness in him that indicated otherwise, but John didn't comment on it. "However, I don't doubt that Mycroft's minions can perfect it."

John worded his next question very carefully. "If it's made, will you take it?"

Sherlock's expression twitched into something controlled, unreadable. "I don't know. Probably not; I want to see how it progresses with a growing human body. It was very clever of them to select adolescents; not too young so the scientists would be uncomfortable, but not too old so they couldn't see development."

John felt discomfort return to him. As much as he wanted to go back to his original life, he didn't want to lose what he had here, with Sherlock. If it meant remaining half-wolf, half-human, then he would do it.

He wouldn't let Sherlock suffer alone.


	16. Chapter 15

**Author's note: No notes here that I'd like to make, other than I'm feeling really good where writing is concerned currently. I'll make no promises in case I can't stick to them, but who knows, I might be able to get this story done pretty soon.**

* * *

The drive to the forest was silent. John and Sherlock were seated in the back of the sleek car while one of Mycroft's minions – Sherlock refused to think of them as anything else – took them on a winding route to their destination.

Externally, Sherlock was the image of patience, and he had looked that way since the car had turned up for them. But in actual fact, he was barely containing his panic. The thought of changing again, even voluntarily, sent a shiver down his spine from the remembered pain.

The rain was falling in earnest now, splattering against the windows and dancing up from the road. The scent of it on the tarmac wafted through the small gap in the driver's window; Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled it deeply. He'd always loved that smell, and he used it to centre himself now. He couldn't let John find out that he was anxious, or he'd only end up fussing over him again. Sherlock had tolerated it recently only so John could get it out of his system, but if he had to endure any more coddling he thought he'd end up snapping at him, and that was the last thing he wanted.

A short gasp of wind darted through the entrance. It tasted of fresh greenery and damp earth. Raising his eyes, Sherlock peered through the glass to see pine trees beside the road, the wind making their branches wave invitingly.

The car slowed, rolling to a halt. The driver leaned back in his seat and twisted to look over his shoulder. "Here we are, boys. I'll be back to pick you up tomorrow morning, but if you want to come back early, go to the house at the back and give me a call, alright?"

"Lovely, thanks," John replied, smiling.

With that, the driver nodded and turned away. John slid out of his side of the car, and Sherlock reluctantly followed him out into the cold.

The rain was like a wall that suddenly hit him. Sherlock turned up his coat collar to stop it from trickling down the back of his neck, but his face was still exposed; his hair was soaked within seconds, the curls plastered to his cheeks. John was worse off – he stood at Sherlock's side, shivering and cursing through gritted teeth. He'd only thought to bring a thin jacket since he'd soon be covered in fur anyway.

Once they heard the car draw away, they moved under the shelter of the trees.

A little way in, hidden in a particularly thick part of greenery, there was a cabin. Ivy vines grew up the sides, clinging to the walls, and it looked like it was about to fall apart. It seemed safe, though; it was still standing, after all. Sherlock could see a chimney on the roof that had started to crumble, littering the roof and the ground around the tiny building with bricks. He couldn't see or smell any smoke, which was a shame, as he'd been looking forward to leaving his clothes out to dry while they ran.

John pushed open the rickety wooden door and peered inside. He stepped in, waving Sherlock after him. The inside seemed just as cosy as the outside wanted them to believe: there was indeed a fireplace to match the chimney, a table and chairs were crammed in one corner, and a small bed was pushed against the wall. A thinning blanket was crumpled into a ball on the uncomfortable looking pillow. There was a pile of clothes here and there; evidently, this was the cabin Mycroft had told them about. It belonged to the others of their kind.

"How wonderful," Sherlock commented in a dry tone.

John snorted, a smile breaking over his features. "Don't be like that. It'd make a lovely place if it had a bit of work done."

Sherlock wasn't intending to be a downer. He was just anxious; it hummed in his nerves, and he could almost hear the low growl of the leopard in his mind. It was horribly distracting.

Then there was also the fact that he'd never been in his animal form outside of the Resort before, and his fears about the pain involved in the change. This time there was also the danger of running into genuine animals. How would they react? Would they know that the creatures prowling their forest weren't real?

John was already stripping in preparation for his transformation. Sherlock politely averted his eyes and followed suit but, after a moment's hesitation when his skin was bare, he picked up his coat again to put it back on. He turned his back to allow John some privacy while he slipped into his other skin.

It was only a handful of seconds before a muzzle was butting Sherlock's hip. He hadn't heard a single sound from his boyfriend; Sherlock's stomach dropped at the realisation that John was stronger than him. It should have been inspiring, but in actual fact, it only made him less confident. A low whine came from John, and Sherlock didn't need to be an animal to understand him. _Coming?_

Sherlock dropped a hand to John's head and gave him a scratch behind his ears. "Just a moment," he murmured.

John huffed in acknowledgement. His claws clicked against the floor as he padded away. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Sherlock spotted him facing the open door, tail swishing quietly back and forth. The fur along his spine was ruffled, his ears twitching.

It was clear that John was eager to get going.

Pulling in a deep, steadying breath, Sherlock added his coat to his clothes and closed his eyes.

Turning his focus inwards, he coaxed the leopard out of the corner of his mind where it had been pacing for days. It crept forwards, scenting the air hopefully. When Sherlock beckoned to it again, it wriggled its haunches and pounced.

At the first sting of pain in his nerves, Sherlock gasped and shoved it back. The cat stumbled backwards with a confused – and slightly hostile – growl in his ear.

Another questioning sound came from John, but Sherlock gave a short, sharp shake of his head. His fingers curled into fists against his thighs, and he tried again.

This time, the pain was more intense; the leopard sunk its claws in and refused to budge. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a hiss. Panicking at the tight grip, he firmly put himself back in control again, forcing the leopard away. This time, it yowled in anger.

The tug-of-war carried on for several minutes, and each time it hurt Sherlock more. It reminded him of the terrifying time spent in the lab, switching back and forth due to the half-made cure. The addition of the swarm of memories did nothing to comfort him. It only heightened the fear building in his chest; the struggle for power stung him and left him uncomfortably on edge.

During one of the brief reprieves, Sherlock collapsed against the wall of the cabin and slid down the bumpy surface to sit on the floor. It was cold against his bare skin, so he took advantage of that by curling up in a ball on his side. It cooled his tingling nerves, but did nothing to soothe the snarling leopard in his head.

A wet nose pushed against his cheek, demanding attention. Opening one eye, Sherlock found himself face to face with a familiar frown that was unmistakable even when John was a canine. He still had those same blue eyes, that same crinkle between his eyebrows.

He was worried.

Sherlock was suddenly grateful that John was unable to communicate effectively with him. He would have been on the receiving end of all sorts of questions he wasn't ready to answer, and he really wasn't sure if he was able to explain properly yet. He barely understood it himself.

"I'm fine," he told him through gritted teeth.

John didn't look convinced. He sat up, tucked his paws underneath himself, and snorted.

"I'll join you in a moment," Sherlock promised. And, when John still didn't look satisfied, he added, "I'm just having trouble. It's been a while."

It was half truth, and it appeared to work. John nodded and flicked an ear, but he didn't move away. Instead, he shuffled around so he could sit against Sherlock's back and provide a warm, comforting presence.

Sherlock had to swallow a lump in his throat. John was just so _kind_. He truly was lucky to have him.

He rolled over so he could bury his fingers in John's fur. The wolf flinched – probably from surprise; it was rare Sherlock showed any signs of distress, and this was twice in one day now – but then let his pelt settle again. A rumbling sound travelled through his sides: laughter.

Pressing his face against John's back, Sherlock carefully let his walls down.

The leopard was brutal, despite the fact that it knew Sherlock had no intention of clinging to his control now. It was all Sherlock could do to contain his cries as it swept through his body, rearranging his bones until the new structure was satisfactory. The burn of it was familiar, but it didn't make it any more bearable; it slid into a blur as Sherlock retreated inside himself in an attempt to create a shield against the agony.

He didn't notice that it was over until he began to hear.

_Sherlock? Sherlock! Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack!_

The nose was back, pushing insistently at his face. He was fairly certain that there were a couple of licks against his whiskers in there, too.

_Are you okay, Sherlock?_

_ Fine_. He moved onto his belly and gave his head a determined shake. It felt like his fur was crackling with unreleased energy; the urge to simply dart outside and run was almost overwhelming, but he contained it for now. He didn't know if he could even sit up yet, let alone stand.

_What was that all about?_ John asked. He wouldn't stop nosing at Sherlock's ears, and it was starting to get annoying. Sherlock flinched and raised a paw to bat him away gently. John took the hint and gave him a bit of space.

_It doesn't matter,_ he told him firmly. _I told you, I'm fine. _

Shaking off the fatigue hanging to his coat, Sherlock pushed himself onto his paws. He wobbled for a few seconds, but then he gritted his teeth and walked determinedly towards the door. The sooner he left the confines of the cabin, and the remnants of his fear that lingered in its walls, the better.

The gentle sweeping sound of fur over the floor told him that John was following; some of the tension drained from his shoulders. Walking through the trees with John at his side was familiar, comforting.

The first breath of rainy air on his face refreshed him. Droplets landed on his whiskers; his tongue snaked out to lick them away, but other drips replaced them. His muzzle twitched with a silent growl of irritation.

John went a few steps further into the forest and tilted his head back, scenting the air, while Sherlock fell into a lazy stretch. The pull of his muscles – locked away for so long – was wonderful. It was like having a drink of water after going without one all day. It just felt so _good._

Sitting back on his haunches, Sherlock disturbed a few leaves with a flick of his tail across the damp ground. Having a tail was going to take some getting used to again. It felt odd with it twitching back and forth behind him.

_Sherlock, _John called, _I found a trail._

Sherlock swivelled his ears towards John. _Who is it?_

John wrinkled his nose, and Sherlock felt an odd swell of affection for the expression. It was… cute, for lack of a better word.

_I think it's… Greg? It's hard to tell. It's an old one, maybe from a few days or so ago._

It was the best they had. Standing – and twitching his whiskers at the squelch of mud under his paws – Sherlock started to join John, but another desire made itself known.

He wanted to climb.

It had been too long since he'd really pushed himself and clawed his way up a tree. The pines here weren't ideal as there were fewer branches at his usual height he could perch on, but it was a challenge Sherlock was willing to meet.

_Lead on,_ he told John. _I'll follow from above._

A wolfish grin appeared on the canine's muzzle. _Race you?_

Sherlock snorted. _That's unfair; I won't be able to pick up the trail from in the trees. _

_ Yeah, but knowing you, you'll work out which way I'm going,_ John retorted.

The leopard bared his teeth in a grin. _Point taken. Give me a chance to get into position, and then we can go._

Turning to the nearest tree, Sherlock tipped his head back so he could get a good look up at the branches. The bark was slippery from the rain; he'd really need to dig his claws in to get a good grip, and landing from a jump might be tricky, but he had an advantage over John. While John searched for the direction the scent took next, Sherlock would be able to catch up and take hints from his movements.

Oh, there was no doubt that John would try to contain his own little deductions, but there would be tells. It would be interesting to see what would betray John's thoughts when he was a wolf.

Setting a paw against the trunk, Sherlock allowed his claws to curl out from their sheaths and sink into the wood. He pulled carefully on the little hooks; they stayed firm. Satisfied, he removed them and took a few steps back.

He was aware that John's eyes were on him, which only made Sherlock more determined to show off his skills at climbing. Sherlock felt no shame in admitting to himself that he was pretty good at it – he'd only fallen from a branch when he'd first attempted it, and that had been because he'd made the stupid mistake of not using his tail for balance.

Sinking into a crouch, Sherlock surveyed the expanse of tree in front of him. He picked a point a decent height from the ground; it would give him enough space to cling comfortably to the trunk, but that wasn't too high that it would be damaging if he fell. It was perfect. The only way it could be better was if it the conditions were dry.

He'd seen other cats wriggle their haunches before they leaped, like the leopard often did when it was confined to his brain, but Sherlock didn't bother with that nonsense. It didn't contribute to the jump itself at all, in his opinion. He simply tensed his hind legs, and then pushed off from the ground.

The air rushed out of Sherlock's lungs as he hit the trunk. He grabbed onto it in an instinctive movement while he regained his breath. He was out of practice; he'd put too much power behind his jump. John snickered quietly back on the ground, so Sherlock flicked his tail disdainfully at him.

It wasn't as difficult as he'd expected to climb up onto a branch. They were a bit higher up than he was used to, but careful waves of his tail kept him in place. He tested the strength of the branch and found it satisfactory.

_Okay?_ John called.

_Ready when you are,_ he replied with a small smile.


End file.
